


Branded

by Bookwormgal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse, Angels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Blood, Body Horror, Canon - TV, Creepy Lucifer (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Crowley's Tattoo (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Demons, Evil Lucifer (Good Omens), Fallen Angels, Guilt, Heaven's Gaslighting Left Some Issues, Heavy Angst, Holy Water, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Knives, Love, Magical Tattoos, Miscommunication, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Partial Mind Control, Possessive Lucifer (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Serious Injuries, Soul Sex, Torture, Vindictive Lucifer (Good Omens), Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-10-06 03:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: The mark on Crowley's face was not a tattoo.When Lucifer, still furious and his pride damaged, took out his frustration out on the first thing to catch his attention after the Fall. Rage, possessiveness, and a need to prove that he was not as weak as he felt when he was cast out spurred him into action. He claimed the broken and fallen creature in every way, relishing the confusion and fear. And he left a piece of his power tangled up in the former angel's essence, the only easily visible sign being a shape manifesting on his eventual corporeal body. But rather quickly, Lucifer found other things to occupy himself and the demon was sent up to Earth to cause some trouble.Six thousand years later and newly-enraged by the betrayal and halted apocalypse, Lucifer finally decides to make use of that power that he left behind. The devil is not one to surrender something that he'd claimed so easily. And the traitor would pay. He would make Crowley suffer.





	1. After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obaewankenope (rexthranduil)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/gifts).

> No clue why I’m writing this except me and a few other people got into a discussion about Crowley’s little snake tattoo that spiraled out of control. We came up with creepy and angsty ideas around it and I couldn’t help thinking up a plot.
> 
> I’m blaming Obaewankenope for this. Totally their fault.
> 
> Those of you who are familiar with my normal fics, I will warn you that things will get a bit… intense and uncomfortable. A lot more so than usual. Hence the rating. It won’t be graphic in the traditional sense since when the worst of it happens, the characters don’t look even remotely human. It’s all metaphysical and such. But it’s still creepy and uncomfortable (because Satan is not nice), so tread with caution and don’t be afraid of hitting the back button.

They claimed that it isn’t the Fall that kills you; it’s the landing. At least, they will once death truly becomes a properly understood concept and there are enough people to properly discuss it. They’ll also say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Neither catchy proverb would be particularly comforting after plummeting an impossible distance and similarly impossible speeds, burning like a fiery star, until you crashed into a lake of boiling sulfur.

But since Lucifer was the first to Fall, he was also the first to claw his way out and recover enough to start moving again.

Fury and hatred burned inside him. Those sharp and vicious emotions were already festering inside him before the Rebellion, but the War, having Her love and grace torn from him, and the Fall all fueled that rage further. How _dare_ She turn Her back on them? How dare She betray their trust? None of this would have happened if She didn’t grow more distant. If She didn’t turn Her attention towards Her new favorite project. If She loved her precious Earth and the creations that She planned for it, if She loved them more than her perfect angels, then they had no choice except to force Her into action.

None of them expected that action to be ripping Her grace out of a third of the population and banishing them from Heaven. A definite overreaction. It was just one minor War…

Lucifer stalked the shores of the boiling lake, watching as more and more of the Fallen tried to climb out. Burnt, wounded, and ruined, they were pale shadows of what they used to be. Their names, Her love, and their brightness had been stripped away. What was left of the angels that followed him were being twisted, their hatred and pain festering and rotting in beings originally crafted from Her limitless love. Lucifer had no name yet for what they’d become, but he could sense their potential power, darker and crueler than before, and he knew that this wasn’t over.

Someday they would restart the War again and they would _win_.

His dark, vengeful, and angry thoughts paused as something new crawled out of the boiling sulfur. Something with just a hint of brightness that the others had already lost or discarded.

_Well_, Lucifer thought with an intrigued and predatory grin, _what a pretty thing_.

Angels, and the not-yet-named demons, did not yet have corporeal bodies since those types of physical forms were not needed in Heaven previously. They only became important once they started dealing with Earth and the soon-to-be-created humans. Before that, there was only strange forms that would someday require warnings to “be not afraid” and essences that behaved rather fluidly. Unbound by physics, biology, and logic. What Lucifer saw did not yet resemble a human with red hair nor a large serpent. Neither humans nor serpents existed yet.

The former angel was long and thin, his general form almost serpentine. Though no one would describe it as such until after snakes came into existence. Shining scales had gone dull. There were golden eyes that should have glowed like stars. And a pair of scorched wings draped limply on the rough ground, somehow surviving the harrowing experience even if the feathers were cracked and splintering from the heat. Not all his wings though; Lucifer could see the broken and scorched nubs where others were torn away like what happened to several of the Fallen that he’d glimpsed earlier. And he could see the cracks, burns, and the ragged wounds where an essential part was ripped out of him. Lucifer watched the crawling creature curl, twist, and wind around his damaged center. Even broken and vulnerable, however, he was appealing. Lucifer saw dark ribbons in the shapes of circles coiling and spinning around a central round shape that should have radiated light, warmth, and love for Her, the very core of the former angel. That light seemed mostly gone, but there was something still glimmering that drew him in.

The Fallen crawled a little further out of the lake. The banks were made of rough black stone, littered with sharp edges that cut and sliced at all of those who managed to climb out of the boiling sulfur. But the shore was still mildly less hostile than the vast lake itself, screams of pain and sorrow still echoing across.

Lucifer didn’t sense the same levels of hatred burning within the pretty thing. Anger, misery, confusion, and the pain of broken trust? Of course. But hatred and burning rage? No. Not like the others.

Lucifer vaguely remember the former angel. Not _well_, but he’d known him in a distant way. He didn’t remember the bright little thing’s name; Lucifer’s name was the only Fallen’s name that survived the plunge and he barely kept it. But he recalled him being clever, curious, and imaginative. Lucifer remembered that he didn’t fight. He wasn’t one of his most loyal and fanatic followers. He remained on the fringes, uncertain and uneasy. But he kept asking questions. Questions that grew more and more dangerous, a gradual and slippery slope. Questions that helped seed doubt. And that doubt brought Lucifer more followers who were willing to listen. The clever and imaginative former angel asked the right questions to tempt others into turning against Her and the wrong questions in order to escape Her judgement.

Such a useful, clever, and bright thing. Perhaps Lucifer would have once looked upon him with kindness and affection. But the part of him that would have loved had no room left for such softness.

No, love and sympathy were extinguished by the Fall. The closest thing that he could manage was a possessive instinct. _Mine_, screamed something vicious in him. Lucifer wanted the broken, vulnerable, and pretty thing. Even if She took everything from those She cast out, tearing her love and grace away from so many of her angels, here was something that She did not take. Something bright and lovely, the remaining spark reminding him slightly of the brightness of Heaven that Lucifer was now denied. She did not steal all the light from Her Lightbringer. He could have this much. A small star for the Morningstar within in the darkness that he’d been cast. He would have this. He would claim this former angel in every way.

Quiet whimpers that begged to know _why_ broke off suddenly as Lucifer startled him with a touch. He gathered the bright glimmer in the darkness. He stroked the Fallen, quietly whispering soothing sounds. The confused and hurt creature slowly leaned into the offered comfort, not even realizing or caring who was offering the soft touch in such a harsh place. Why would he react any differently? Not very long ago, they were all angels. And angels were meant to be loving and protective. Soothing and helping one that was hurt and afraid was normal.

Of course, that wasn’t quite true anymore. He should have remembered that. The War proved that no one could trust anyone else. He seemed determined not to think about what brought them down to this place, but the angels would have no love or kindness left for those who had Fallen.

There was no love left for them. No kindness. Not from Above and not down in the darkness where they’d been cast. Anything bright, soft, or good was torn out, tainted, or burned away.

_Mine_. He wouldn’t let this be taken. He wouldn’t let him go. What could have been a kind and loving reaction was already corrupted. Lucifer felt attracted to the clever and imaginative creature, appreciating the prettiness of even the damaged form and the bright spark of goodness shining through the pain and frustration. He wanted to keep the useful thing. Not exactly to protect and shelter him. He wanted to _claim_ the former angel.

“Such a lovely, bright, and nice thing,” he purred, adjusting his grip. “And She cast you out? Tossed you aside for asking a few questions? Well, not to worry. You’re not alone, darling. I’m not like Her. I won’t abandon you like She did. You’re _mine_.”

Lucifer didn’t even notice that he’d changed his position until the former angel was pinned under him, wiggling and struggling to pull free. The brief respite from his suffering, the moment where the pretty thing felt reassured and safe, was dissolving into panic. Lucifer tightened his hold, silently snarling _mine_. The growing confusion, distrust, distress, and fear did little to dissuade Lucifer. If anything, it somehow increased his desire.

He wanted this. He had the power to take and claim it. And She was not there to forbid him anything anymore. The Almighty had forsaken them. Here, _he_ was the strongest. Here, _he_ was in control. No matter how mighty She was, She was not here in this place. Nothing could control or stop him from having what he desired. So Lucifer didn’t let it.

“Hold still and stop trying to crawl away,” he ordered as he reached deep into his pretty thing’s essence, wrapping around the bright spark even as the horrified creature tried to escape. “You’re mine. _Mine_.”

The birds and the bees don’t apply to beings that have no form of reproduction. There is no biological drive for the act because there is no biological necessity for it. And while angels might be able to put in the effort to attempt it when they someday inhabit corporeal bodies, sex in the most literal sense does not happen in their natural state.

That does not mean that there are not ways to interact that are similarly vulnerable, emotional, and pleasurable.

Sharing and mixing their essences together was an intimate and intense act. It served as a way for angels who were particularly close and who cared especially deeply for each other to grow even closer. A way to truly Know someone. It was an act of temporary melding, where everything was shared: love, pleasure, and a deep connection. True, any love was a pale imitation of the love that She shared with all of her creations, but it was more personal and made them happy. And She was always pleased to see Her angels loving one another. She saw them be happy, feel pleasure together, and share their love and deemed it to be good. But the intimacy meant that only the closest of angels with the deepest of love and trust would agree to it.

After so many angels Fell, it will become even rarer over time. The original trust, love, and close bonds between all the angels had been shaken by the War. And rather than admit their fear of betrayal and heartache, the angels will claim that they wish to avoid favoritism or putting another before Her with their love. They shall close themselves off and not see what they are becoming over thousands of years.

Combining their essences together was meant to be an act of love and trust between angels who agree to share the experience. But Lucifer, any scrap of love left behind already being twisted by his limitless hate into jealous possessiveness, did not need agreement. He wanted the pleasurable experience, his pretty thing, the bright spark that the former angel brought with him, and anything else that Lucifer could claim. His pride took a beating from the humiliating defeat and Lucifer relished the chance to prove his power. He would take what he desired because he was strong enough to make it happen. What he wanted was all that mattered. Not the desires of anyone else.

The former angel was panicking, confused, and terrified by a strange essence digging into him. The concept of this form of bonding without agreement was unthinkable and incomprehensible. It had never happened before. There were no words yet to describe the possibility. And while waves of pleasure and warmth washed over Lucifer the deeper and further he forced himself, enjoying the tiny glimmer at the core of his pretty thing, the former angel kept trying to escape. Hissing, struggling, wiggling, and recoiling from the intruding entity that buried into his very self.

“Do you want to be alone so badly?” asked Lucifer, startling the former angel into stillness for a brief moment. But only a moment because fear and preservation instinct won out. “Abandoned? You already feel that emptiness where She used to be. Where Heaven and the other angels used to be. I _know_ you do. You’re empty and alone. Because She found you unworthy of Her love. More than that. She found you to be worthless. Unforgivable.”

He pressed deeper, pleasure rippling through him. Melding together was meant to let them share their love and affection on a deeper level, but Lucifer didn’t sense that. He felt the poor creature’s fear, pain, loss, confusion, and distress. But also his potential power. Oh, yes, this one had strength buried within him. His pretty thing was stronger than he looked. He was too hurt and afraid to use it against him, but it was there.

Useful. Clever. Strong.

_Mine_.

“Empty and alone,” he continued, pushing further with both his words and himself.

One essence repeatedly invading the other, moving like waves and crashing on the shore. Or the tides, pulling and pushing their way through the ocean. Churning together even as one struggled to resist the stronger force. But just as nothing could fight the tides and win, it barely slowed down what Lucifer was doing. Forcibly mingling and overwhelming the resistant one until the edges between them blurred.

He wanted more. More. _More_.

“Hollow. That’s what She did. Hollowed you out.”

Faster, harder, and deeper, every wave sent ripples of pleasure through Lucifer. Formless and relentless. Unhindered by the limits of shape, size, or any form of boundaries. Not even the boundaries that She would command.

Wasn’t it better this way? Not worrying about agreement? Not worrying about others’ desires? Wasn’t it better to have _everything_? To take something pretty and bright to use as he wished? Yes, it felt wonderful. He wanted _more_.

“Do you want to be alone? Do you want that ragged hole inside you? Do you want that bright speck to gutter out completely, taking whatever is left of who you used to be?”

The idea of extinguishing that brightness, of corrupting and ruining his pretty thing until nothing was left, should not have been as intriguing as it was. The former angel was still writhing on so many levels, trying to escape what was happening. Asking _why_, begging for him to stop, and making wordless sounds of distress that were swallowed up by the shrieks of those still burning in the lake. Breaking him and twisting what was left sounded wonderful. But not yet. Lucifer would not lose the little light yet.

He could always ruin Her new favorite creations instead. A little revenge against Her. A lovely thought.

“You have nothing and no one. She and the angels who remain in Heaven have forsaken you. How long do you think you can linger without me? How long can a bright and vulnerable light last?”

The speed and force behind his efforts could be described as violent, rough waves that battered and churned them together, but the pleasure was indescribable. And he could _feel_ the brightness that seemed to be stubborn hope, Lucifer thoroughly entrenched in the pretty thing’s core. He could also feel the former angel’s desperation and fear, which somehow made the experience _better_.

More. He wanted even _more_.

“Do you want that, darling? Or do you want something to replace what was taken? Because I will fix what She broke. I will keep you bright and shining. I will keep you because you’re _mine_. All of you is _mine_. Serve me, obey me, give me what I want, and you will never be empty and alone.”

Lucifer had many talents. His charisma and knowing just how to persuade his audience were among his greatest. And when someone was already at their lowest and most vulnerable, they would cling to any hope. And they would accept any offer. His pretty thing would give Lucifer everything because it was his only option. There was no choice.

“Now be nice and stop being so… _crawly_.”

All fight left the former angel. No further attempts to wiggle free or to resist. He surrendered and Lucifer took _everything_.

He forced his essence into every piece of his pretty thing. Around, over, under, through, into, _everywhere_. Nothing remained untouched. Warm, bright, rippling waves of endless pleasure. All for him. More. Always _more_.

It drove all other thoughts from his mind. The War, Her betrayal, the loss of Her love and grace, and even the pain from the Fall. None of that mattered as he used the former angel to do with as he pleased. That’s what he wanted. To forget. But to also fill that gaping emptiness with intense and amazing sensations, to be powerful and strong enough that he would never feel vulnerable again. And if that meant that he would force the Fallen even lower and to make them pay for what She took, then so be it. Replace the pain and loss with the pleasure born from another’s suffering.

And _yes_, this felt good. Or if not Good, something darker and more intense and _better_.

_Mine_. The possessive, selfish, and vicious instinct drove him forward. While pride, envy, and wrath were created during the War, Lucifer was quickly inventing the concepts of greed and lust. And he found them to be intoxicating.

But eventually his frantic, forceful, and aggressive waves began to ease. Even Lucifer could grow tired of absolute pleasure. Especially when his pretty, bright thing had long since lost consciousness from exhaustion and sheer overwhelming sensations. Too much intensity hitting the wounded and broken creature at once, nearly washing him away in the flood and storm.

Besides, as pleasurable as it might be to continue enjoying his shiny prize, Lucifer knew it was time that he got back to reestablishing control. Couldn’t let the Fallen start getting ideas such as blaming him for their fate.

As he started the task of untangling his essence from the other’s, Lucifer paused at one of the deeper wounds from where She ripped every trace of Herself out. _Mine_, whispered every greedy and possessive instinct. His bright, pretty, and broken former angel. A light for the Lightbringer. _Mine_. It belonged to Lucifer in every sense. He claimed the bright spark. It was his clever, useful, and creative creature.

The former angel remained unconscious as Lucifer poured a piece of his power into the wound. It twisted and coiled like the serpentine Fallen itself, scorching a permanent place inside the creature. Claiming, binding, _branding_. And once he was satisfied that nothing would dislodge his hold and the former angel was _his_ beyond any doubt, Lucifer pulled away and finally separated completely.

“You’re such a nice and pretty thing,” he said with a grin that showed too many teeth, unconcerned that his audience could not hear him. “I’ll find a use for you. Something that won’t extinguish that delightful bright glimmer. But don’t worry. No matter where I send you, no matter what task that I might give you, and no matter how long you are gone, you will always be mine.” Lucifer lowered the long and skinny creature back to the rough ground. “_Mine_.”

* * *

Lucifer left the former angel behind on the dark rocky shore, returning to gather the Fallen who survived to crawl out of the boiling sulfur. It took time for the wounded creature, the word _crawly_ echoing through him in a way that felt like a name and a command, to stir. He felt lost, violated, and wrong in ways that he couldn’t describe. Everything felt too raw and ragged, his entire self shredded by all the recent events. Both the Fall and what came after. He was left struggling to pull the pieces back together. But he didn’t notice the parting gift; the rest of the pain, misery, and loss made it easy to write off everything that felt different as a side effect of the Fall and everything that She took.

The former angel learned several harsh lessons in a very short time frame. His innocence had shattered into jagged shards from the Fall. He learned that he couldn’t trust or expect kindness from Her or the angels. They didn’t care about him. No one did. And after crawling to the shore, he learned that he could expect nothing better from the other Fallen. Even as a form of order was aggressively established, Lucifer claiming rulership of their new domain and the hordes of newly-named demons, there was no trust. Any weakness or vulnerability would be exploited. Demons treated one another no better than the angels treated them. He learned that lesson thoroughly. It was not a mistake that he intended to repeat.

He understood the truth. There was no one in the universe that he could trust, who would care, or would see him as anything more than something to use and exploit for their own purposes. By the time that Lucifer, grinning in a way that made the golden-eyed demon shiver, ordered him to infiltrate Her precious garden on Earth and cause some trouble for Her newest creations, he didn’t expect to find anything better. That bright glimmer of hope and goodness threatened to tarnish or flicker out.

He didn’t notice the dark mark on his newly-claimed corporeal body, the twisted shape camouflaged by the black scales of the large snake. A physical sign of the power that Lucifer branded into his true form. Only when he shifted into a humanoid shape could the image be easily seen against his right temple. Though no one would have recognized what it meant, he was walking around with what was essentially “Property of Satan” tattooed on his face. Perhaps he would have questioned its presence more if he first took on the bipedal shape somewhere without distractions.

But he took that shape on the wall of Eden. Because he found an angel. And while he initially tried to provoke a reaction by asking pointed questions, preparing for a fight because what _else _should happen when two hereditary adversaries meet, that thought evaporated the moment the angel admitted to giving away his sword to help protect the newly-banished humans.

Choosing what was kind and right over what was supposed to be Good. Not like the others.

Then, when a demon offered even a hint of kindness and reassured him that he did the right thing, the angel soaked up the honest affection like a dying plant soaked up water. And when the rains came, the angel repaid that kindness with the protection and shelter from his wing.

_You’re different_, whispered that tiny spark that Aziraphale managed to keep from guttering out. _You’re different and I want to know more_.

As ignorant as the demon might be of the true nature of the mark that Lucifer left behind, he remained similarly oblivious to the nature of his own feelings. At least until a few thousand years later when Aziraphale tempted Crowley to join him for oysters, when the angel sought him out instead of the reverse, and the demon realized that the warm affection that washed over him every time they encountered was something stronger than he believed. He loved his angel, so different than anything in Heaven or Hell. Better than both.

Time passed in the endless way that it does. Crowley remained on Earth, orbiting his angel as if he was the sun and always seeking him out over increasingly short intervals. He struck a careful balance with his temptations: enough to keep his superiors happy and to seem successful, but never enough of the personal quality work to be promoted. He didn’t want the direct attention from the very top nor the possibility of reporting to someone further up than Beelzebub. It was safer to coast by. He didn’t want demons noticing his growing bond with his angel and he certainly didn’t want to provide excuses for Satan to spend excessive time around him.

It wasn’t enough to be curious and imaginative. You had to learn from past mistakes. And Crowley learned how to survive in the ruthless environment of Hell the hard way before slipping away to safer places.

Lucifer let Crowley wander on Earth. The demon did his task well, tempting Eve to disobey Her. He was successful at his later endeavors as well. Enough that he would have gained approval even without Lucifer’s possessiveness making him take notice of him. And while most demons couldn’t appreciate his methods or imagination, his favored state within Hell remained an unspoken fact. Though several demons wondered favored by _who?_ He tended to rub many of them the wrong way and no one could quite agree on who actually liked him enough to give him so many important assignments over the millennia.

But he stayed on Earth and Lucifer found other ways to keep himself occupied. Even with Beelzebub and others handling the more routine aspects, ruling over Hell required work and attention. And sometimes, when dealing with failure or boredom, some personal torture sessions for whatever unlucky fool caught his attention. After all, the demons were _his_ and he could treat them however he wished if they displeased him. Rank and power went hand in hand and he ruled them all. And with so much ambient misery, hatred, pain, and fear, he did not need to seek out other forms of pleasure. The suffering around him was enough.

But he did not forget Crowley. No, he didn’t forget. He let him wander, but the power branded into the demon’s essence remained firmly in place. Lucifer never felt the urge to use that connection. Why show his hand when there was no need? When he had so many distractions and methods of pleasure within easy reach? But the power had six thousand years to settle in place, to become thoroughly entrenched in every corner of the demon. Inactive and unnoticed, but threaded deeply through his essence.

Waiting.

Crowley continued to roam the world, unaware of what the tattoo on his face meant. He slowly grew closer to his angel, fell in love with Earth and humanity, gained commendations for things that he didn’t do, and tried to keep going. He was eventually assigned a special task by Lucifer himself: deliver the Anti-Christ so that the end of the world could begin.

Which ended up a complete mess. And continued to spin out of control until the world eventually didn’t end.

On the airbase near Tadfield, immediately after Armageddon was halted by a rebellious eleven-year-old and assorted others, things should have been looking up. The problem should have been settled. But Beelzebub told Lucifer what his son had done. Beelzebub told him what _Crowley_ did. And absolute rage proceeded him like a tsunami as Satan decided to make his displeasure known. _In person_.

Both nonhuman beings felt the burning and horrifying anger rolling off him upon his approach, but it hit Crowley the hardest. The fury, hatred, and promises of revenge knocked him off his feet, the intensity of it choking and painful. Neither angel nor demon had time to wonder why it affected Crowley the worst, simply assuming it was due to his demonic nature making him more sensitive to the rage. Why would they suspect the activation of a long-dormant connection, the brand buried in his essence so long ago? Only when Crowley yanked himself, Adam, and Aziraphale completely out of the normal flow of time, drawing on more power than he’d ever attempted before and landing in the Sands of Time themselves in the process, did he temporarily disrupt the connection. Lucifer’s influence stuttered for just a second and then he was too distracted dealing with his son to immediately resume.

And the humiliation and frustration of Adam breaking any bond between them and banishing him back to Hell meant that Lucifer missed the preparations for the “trial.” He limited himself to lurking in the shadows at the very end. But he did pay enough attention to realize that whoever it was that they failed to execute, it was not Crowley. Lucifer knew that he didn’t sense that piece of his power that he branded the demon with when the traitor climbed into the holy water. It was someone else.

He could respect the clever trick. Lucifer could admit that much through his hatred, fury, and the feeling of betrayal. He let it unfold out of respect and because it terrified his other demons, which was always a nice state of affairs.

But that didn’t mean that he forgave Crowley. Not even slightly.

It was a matter of pride. Once Lucifer claimed something, even if thousands of years had passed since that point and he’d let the bright thing stray from his focus, he was not one to relinquish what was _his_. Crowley would always belong to Lucifer. And the failed apocalypse only made it clear that a reminder was needed. A reminder in the form of a _severe_ punishment for his failure, his rebellion, and his betrayal. Lucifer had been too lenient for too long.

He was no longer as impulsive as he was when he first Fell. He’d gained patience with time, just as his vindictive side, his cruelty, and his fury grew stronger. There was no hurry. He could afford to be patient. He could allow Crowley to lower his guard, to hope, and to be happy in his success. He could wait.

The higher that his pretty thing might climb, the farther that he would fall to crash upon the rocks below. And Lucifer would ensure that this time, he would _shatter_.


	2. After the Apocalypse That Wasn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now that we have the possessive, creepy, and definitely unhealthy "relationship" established, it is time to turn our attention to the one actually built on love and trust instead. One that is six thousand years in the making.

Crowley smiled slightly from his position by one of the bookshelves. He’d been leaning against a section that contained mostly volumes of poetry from the late 19th century for the majority of the day and had come to the conclusion that they were more comfortable than the shelves full of gothic literature. And certainly better to rest against than the vast collection of misprint bibles. Even with the spelling and grammar issues, those could _sting_.

Aziraphale had been reorganizing part of the bookshop for the past five hours. He’d been fully absorbed in the project, barely noticing when Crowley switched his previous Bach record for a vinyl copy of “The Best of Queen.” His only reaction was to pause briefly with a confused frown before continuing. Aziraphale just kept puttering around with his stacks of books and a distracted smile on his face. He was the very picture of contentment: a blond angel in a waistcoat, perfectly happy to spend hours among his books.

And Crowley could spend that time watching his angel. Without needing to make excuses. Without Aziraphale being a high-strung and nervous wreck at the thought of Heaven and Hell finding out the truth. And without needing to dance around the topic of what exactly their relationship was or what it could be. He could just spend time enjoying his angel’s company for no other reason than because he loved Aziraphale and wanted to be near him.

Six thousand years and he could finally just _be_ with him. It simply took the world almost ending and the pair bluffing both Heaven and Hell into leaving them alone to make it happen.

Aziraphale moved along a row of books, fingers not quite touching the volumes before plucking one from the shelves and adding it to the stack in his arms. Crowley didn’t know how he managed to find the best angel in all of Creation, but he did. And since Heaven couldn’t appreciate the soft, good, and wonderful angel, then they didn’t deserve the blond bookshop owner with the indescribable blue eyes that lit up when he found a new restaurant, a new book for his collection, or a new experience to try.

_Our side_.

Crowley wasn’t always honest with himself, but his feelings concerning Aziraphale was the one topic that he couldn’t deceive himself about. Certainly not once he realized what those feelings _were_, though that took a few thousand years to sort out. And the truth of the matter was that he fell for Aziraphale on the wall of Eden, falling far harder than he did when he tumbled out of Heaven. It just took time for them to catch up with each other and match speeds.

In many ways, Aziraphale still looked like he did on the first day that they met. He didn’t like to experiment with change to the extent that Crowley did and, with the exception of what happened around the Apoca-Oops, Aziraphale maintained the same corporeal body through the years. After so long wrapped in the same shape, even his true form tried to mirror that shape, though Crowley knew that he would revert to his natural state after a while without a corporeal body.

He remembered catching glimpses of Aziraphale’s true form in the early days, before he properly settled in his physical shape on Earth. Crowley remembered Looking below the surface, though it half-blinded him to stare at the angelic form nestled inside. Too bright with Her love and grace. Elegant and powerful white wings, fathomless blue eyes, and a general shape that could only be described as humanoid in the broadest sense, he was just as perfect as his corporeal body. Crowley even glimpsed the pearly sheen of his essence and an imperfectly healed injury before he had to stop Looking.

It wasn’t until the seventeenth century that Crowley found out what caused that injury. As Aziraphale put it, trying _not_ to kill someone in a War when the opponent had no such qualms made it nearly impossible to escape unscathed. An unknown and rebelling angel, certainly one who eventually Fell, attacked and managed to slip past his attempt to be purely defensive. The future demon landed a deep wound and was barely driven away before they could finish the principality off. Without the healers’ intervention, Crowley could have lost his angel before they even met. But the weapons on both sides were made to harm on multiple levels and the damage was too deep to erase completely. Getting Aziraphale to admit it was like pulling teeth, but apparently the scar left behind continued to hurt when he wasn’t nestled and insulated inside a corporeal body. Which was why a principality was assigned the task of guarding the Eastern Gate when cherubs watched the other three; working on Earth required a corporeal body and there was a limited supply in the early days.

But Crowley loved every part of his angel, even when he couldn’t say it. His corporeal body, his true form, and his very essence. And not long after they essentially handed in their resignations to Heaven and Hell in the most dramatic way possible, Aziraphale admitted to feeling the same thing.

Which immediately led to the demon’s face turning the same shade as his hair, struggling to get his lungs to cooperate properly again, and being completely inarticulate for at least an hour afterwards, but he preferred not to think about that embarrassing reaction.

Crowley shifted slightly, trying to decide if he should find a new spot to lurk or not. Aziraphale seemed to be focused on one area currently. He suspected that based on how the angel kept lingering on each volume longer and longer, Aziraphale would be drawn into actually reading instead of reorganizing soon. And while Crowley could keep watching him, which did sound like a nice idea, he could also try tempting the angel to dinner before too long.

_Or_, a rather compelling idea reminded Crowley, _he could stop acting like they needed to dance around each other still and actually enjoy making his angel feel loved._

Old habits die hard, but Crowley would be perfectly happy to help murder them.

Carefully and slowly, Crowley sauntered his way across the room. Stalking the angel. Aziraphale didn’t suspect a thing, too absorbed in his books to notice the demon’s progress. Not a direct path. A serpentine one that curled and coiled around his target, gradually drawing nearer. He eventually came to a halt behind Aziraphale.

Humans had devised a wide variety of ways to show affection, though the specific meanings behind several of them had changed over the ages and between different cultures. Some were rather messy while others were fairly nice. Temptations towards lust were often the most effective, especially in the days where wide-spread methods of inciting wrath and frustration were trickier to arrange, so Crowley was quite familiar with all of them. And Aziraphale…

Well, he always knew that Aziraphale enjoyed trying new human experiences. And a night a few months after the failed apocalypse, the exact extent of that experience came out in the backroom of the bookshop.

_“And the best excuse that Gabriel and Sandalphon could come up with for some privacy,” said Aziraphale, fighting back chuckles, “was buying pornography.”_

_Crowley didn’t even try to smother his laughter. Not that he would be able to resist very well anyway. They’d drank just enough wine by that point to make them giggly without stumbling over syllables._

_“Does that stuck-up Archangel even know the meaning of the word?” asked Crowley. “He barely spends any time around humans. He probably thinks that all humans end up pregnant like Mariam. Just poof and oh, you’re expecting now? Well, that’s nice. Spontaneous and everything. No need to have a second human involved at all. Idiot probably had no clue why the kid showing up like that was so odd.”_

_And while Aziraphale tried to smother his reaction, Crowley saw the amusement in his eyes. He was only trying to hide it because of manners and out of habit. Then he saw his angel grin, clearly remembering that he didn’t have to be a proper angel and defend the Archangel any longer._

_“He wouldn’t even try sushi.” Aziraphale’s eyes practically sparkled as he bit his bottom lip. “Called it ‘gross matter.’ Can you imagine someone suggesting that he try—”_

_He couldn’t even finish the sentence without giggling. Crowley nearly spilled his wine as he struggled to catch his breath, the idea making him laugh too hard. He couldn’t picture the pompous twit involving himself in something as messy and awkward as human-shaped bodies engaging in sex. Well, he could imagine it slightly, though it stretched the limits of even the demon’s vast imagination. _

_The attempt to picture it and the wine helped banish the memory of Gabriel ordering “Aziraphale” to shut up and die._

_“Never would happen, Angel. Not even if he spent a thousand years on Earth.” Crowley shook his head and took a sip from the bottle before smirking. “And what about you? Did you ever give it a try? Humans can get pretty creative about it. Lots of options depending on how many people and which parts get involved.”_

_Aziraphale blinked briefly before paying a surprising amount of attention to his cup and muttered, “A few times.”_

_“Oh?” he asked, raising an eyebrow over his shades. “When?”_

_“A while back.”_

_Tilting his head, Crowley asked, “Oscar Wilde? All those signed first-editions…?”_

_“Well, you see, that’s a bit personal, and it wouldn’t be right to reveal, not if they aren’t around and—”_

_“Not going to kiss and tell?” he teased. “That’s fine, Angel. Did you at least enjoy yourself or were you too busy blessing the lucky human with your version of holy bliss?”_

_Shifting awkwardly in his chair, Aziraphale said, “The kissing, the holding hands, the hugging, and such was… nice.” His eyes glanced at Crowley briefly before dropping as he smiled softly. “Of course, like most things, it mainly depends on the company.”_

_“And,” said Crowley, his grip on the bottle tightening as he tried not to think about what the angel was hinting at too closely, “the sex part?”_

_“It was… fine.” He shrugged. “Pleasant and enjoyable enough. I can see why humans like it, I suppose. But not my favorite pastime. I’d prefer a nice dinner out or a manicure instead. I suppose that at least a few human activities were bound not to measure up. And you?”_

_Returning the shrug, Crowley said, “It was work. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t good at it.”_

_As they both took a moment to drink a little more wine, Crowley slid lazily along the couch in an attempt to find a more comfortable spot. And if the move brought him slightly closer to where Aziraphale had dragged over his chair, all the better. He rubbed right below his shades, but he wasn’t quite ready to pull them off like he might during some of their evenings together. Maybe after he finished off the bottle._

_“Maybe the human sexual experience failed to impress us because, at the end of the day, we’re not human,” said Aziraphale absently, his eyes flickering towards the ceiling. “Though I don’t suppose I have anything to compare it to.”_

_As the angel dropped his gaze, Crowley asked slowly, “Oh. You’re saying that… You’ve never Known someone… Not even once…”_

_“If you’re trying to ask about melding essences, the answer is I have not,” he said firmly. “Before I started guarding the Eastern Gate, I was never close enough to anyone. Certainly not close enough to Know them like that. And after, I did not spend enough time around the other angels and by then it was… discouraged in Heaven. Favoritism and worries about putting someone else before Her.” He paused, a dark and distant look passing across his face that Crowley had already figured out meant that he was confronting another disillusionment with his former side. “At least, that is the official explanation for it.”_

_“Really? Goes against their whole ‘love everyone’ motto.” And, hoping to get rid of that darkness from the angel’s eyes, Crowley added, “I would have figured that Gabriel and Michael would at least try it out between planning sessions for the apocalypse. Those two need a hobby. Or maybe Gabriel and Sandalphon could give it a go. If they’re going to go around talking about buying pornography…”_

_A quiet chuckle slipped out and some of the tension left Aziraphale, which Crowley counted as a success, as they both lapsed into silence. He took a moment to check the bottle in his hand again. It was getting low, but they didn’t need to miracle up more quite yet. He did take a second to lean over and pour his angel a little more in his cup though._

_“And you?”_

_Tilting his head, Crowley asked, “What?”_

_“Did you ever try it?”_

_“Too busy with nebulas and asking too many questions before the entire Fall mess put a damper on things.”_

_“And after that?” he asked before taking another sip._

_Hesitating a few seconds longer than he intended, Crowley said evenly, “Angel, you’re smarter than that. Opening yourself up like that to someone and letting them Know you? Supposed to be with someone you trust and love, right? Any angel would be more likely to smite me than anything else. And demons,” he paused just a second to make sure that he didn’t think about what he was saying and that his voice remained steady, “demons don’t trust or care enough about each other to agree to that type of thing. No demon would ever **agree**.”_

_A short chuckle and Aziraphale said, “I’m sorry. I suppose that was a foolish question.”_

_And that was enough of that topic. Crowley pulled his thoughts away from uncomfortable ancient history and focused on the present instead. Specifically, the angel sitting across from him. The important part of the past conversation was that Aziraphale did like a few things that Crowley would love to try with him. Some of which he’d been wanting to do for quite a long time._

_The angel blinked in surprise when fingers wrapped around his hand, apparently not noticing the demon’s arm moving until that point. But he didn’t pull away. He even smiled and squeezed back. Crowley decided to push his luck and rubbed his thumb across his knuckles._

_How he survived dealing with the Victorian era and their reserved approach to physical contact meaning he was even **less** likely to touch Aziraphale, Crowley had no idea. Although, just holding his angel’s hand for more than a second made him feel like his limb was buzzing with electricity. _

_And he was allowed to now. No punishment hanging over their heads and Aziraphale wasn’t pulling away. Because if he told Crowley “no,” he would stop immediately and give his angel all the space and distance that he wanted. He would do anything for Aziraphale. But Aziraphale wasn’t asking him to stop. Aziraphale did want and like this. Crowley was allowed to do this. It was all right. It wasn’t too fast or too much._

_Humming softly and pulling the demon out of his excited racing thoughts, Aziraphale said, “This is rather—”_

_“Don’t call me ‘nice.’ It’ll ruin the moment.”_

Human creativity and imagination truly knew no limits. They didn’t share humanity’s obsession with sex and probably wouldn’t try it except maybe once every couple of decades if they grew bored. But the other forms of demonstrating affection definitely had some good points. Especially when getting the actual words out still sometimes gave the demon trouble.

Saying exactly how he felt might end with Crowley as a sputtering mess and the more angelic way of Knowing someone… He knew for certain that it would be a step too far and too fast for Aziraphale to suggest it, not after thousands of years of worrying and internalizing Heaven’s impersonal and distant attitude. The closest he’d managed so far was the idea for the switch and even that wasn’t quite the same. And Crowley didn’t… He wasn’t going to bring up the possibility first.

But he wanted to show Aziraphale how much that he truly loved his angel. And the human way gave him plenty of methods to do it.

Crowley smiled as he leaned in close, right behind the distracted angel. Then his arms snaked around Aziraphale’s middle and hugged him close. Soft and worn velvet under his palms and his angel’s back pressed against him. Aziraphale chuckled in surprise, leaning into the embrace and further into the demon’s chest. All while keeping hold of the books in his arms.

“Sorry about that. Have I been ignoring you?” asked Aziraphale. “I didn’t intend it. I must have gotten a tad distracted.”

“It’s fine, Angel.” He tightened his grip and tucked his head on the angel’s shoulder. “I don’t mind. But you know, it might be a good time for a short break.”

He couldn’t see his face at this angle, but he heard the smile in Aziraphale’s voice as he said, “I really should finish this section first. I wouldn’t want to lose my place.”

Crowley let go with his left hand long enough to jerk it up in a sharp _snap_, a small demonic miracle relocating the books in the angel’s arms to the closest table. He felt Aziraphale shake slightly with silent laughter. And then his newly-freed hands slipped over Crowley’s and the demon shivered at his touch. It shouldn’t feel so warm and nice, but his skin almost seem tingle in a rather pleasant way. He’d always been far too aware whenever he felt Aziraphale and Crowley rather doubted that he would grow immune to casual or intimate touches anytime soon.

He turned his head slightly, burying his face in the angel’s neck. Crowley breathed in deeply, basking in the familiar and comforting scent. Ancient books, binding glue, cocoa, rich and expensive food, wine, old velvet from his favorite waistcoat, dust, warm sunlight, and a bright and elusive thing that he could only describe as “holy.” A few things had changed over thousands of years, velvet and binding glue not being around when they first met, but he would recognize his angel’s scent anywhere. And Crowley couldn’t imagine anything better than holding Aziraphale, breathing in his scent, soaking in his warmth, and not having to worry about anyone else in Creation.

He’d wanted this for longer than most of human history. For longer than he could admit. For longer than he’d realized. And even though he finally had everything that he’d ever wanted, there were days that Crowley couldn’t believe it was real. As if he would eventually wake up from a long nap to find out that it was all a dream and he was forced to go back to maintaining a distance of plausible deniability. But it was real and Aziraphale loved him _back_.

One of Aziraphale’s hands let go of Crowley’s, moving up to slide along the edge of the demon’s face until his fingers buried into his hair. The scrape of the angel’s fingernails along his scalp felt glorious. Crowley chuckled quietly before reaching up to reclaim his angel’s hand. He pulled it down and, turning his head the smallest amount, pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. Then he laced his fingers between his angel’s and wrapped his arm back around. When he chose to hold Aziraphale, the serpent in him preferred to hold his angel close and tight. But never too tight that he would feel trapped or like Crowley would hold him against his will. He loved Aziraphale too much to risk hurting him like that.

Never too much. Never too far. Never too fast. Never more than he could handle. Anything that mattered deserved care and patience. And Aziraphale mattered more than anything else.

“I do apologize again for not paying closer attention to you today,” said Aziraphale softly. “I hope you know that I didn’t mean to do that.”

Smiling slightly, Crowley murmured, “You know me. If I wanted, I could have interrupted sooner. Cause a little trouble to distract you.”

“Wily old serpent.”

He pressed his face back into the angel’s neck, the gesture only describable as nuzzling. No demon would admit to nuzzling. The term was too soft and nice. But it was exactly what Crowley was doing as he breathed in his scent deeply.

There were times where Crowley felt too crowded and constricted, like he was trapped in Hell again with all of them pressed against him constantly. And on those days, he needed the option of space. But other days, he wanted to keep his angel as close as possible. To hold him, smell him, and feel that his angel was near. And almost nothing could be quite close enough for his taste.

“I still don’t know what you see in me,” breathed Aziraphale, the words soft enough that Crowley knew that he wasn’t meant to hear and that the angel likely didn’t realize that he’d spoken out loud.

“I just see what those other angels couldn’t recognize, even when you were right in front of them the whole time.” He tilted his head up to press a small kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek before returning to leaning his face into his neck. “Because you’re so clever and brave and good. Because you know that being kind and caring and wanting to help and doing what’s right sometimes means bending or breaking the rules.” Crowley felt his face grow warm, but it was easier to talk while he couldn’t see the angel’s expression. “I see _you_, Aziraphale.”

He felt Aziraphale take a short breath at his words and he suspected that the angel was blushing. But Crowley wasn’t interested in pulling away enough to look. He was seriously considering taking a moment to pull his sunglasses off. They did make it a little awkward to nuzzle— _to press_ his face into the angel’s neck. It couldn’t be comfortable for Aziraphale either, the frames digging into his skin. But that would involve letting go long enough to take them off and he wasn’t certain that he possessed the willpower to attempt it.

“_Enjoying retirement, darling? Was it worth betraying all of Hell and ruining the Apocalypse?_”

Crowley stiffened, a chill running down his spine and straight through his essence. But Aziraphale didn’t react. He didn’t hear the impossible voice whispering in Crowley’s ear. He didn’t hear it, so it couldn’t be real. Besides, there wasn’t anything for Hell to communicate through and no one was bursting through the ground like the dramatic ending for a movie. Crowley was simply being paranoid. That was all.

It wasn’t Satan showing up after all this time. It was his imagination playing tricks. Nothing more.

He forced himself to relax. Crowley inhaled deeply, focusing on the angel’s scent. Safe, warm, and comforting. He let Aziraphale’s scent soothe his frazzled nerves. And when the angel brought Crowley’s hand up and pressed a gentle kiss to his palm, he focused solely on how nice it felt and nothing else.

“As lovely as this might be,” murmured Aziraphale, “we can’t do this all afternoon.”

“Why not?” he said with a grin.

“For one, I was thinking about this nice Thai place I thought that I could try for dinner.” Wiggling slightly in Crowley’s arms, Aziraphale said, “Do you suppose I could tempt you into joining me?”

Crowley grinned, always excited by the idea of his angel trying to tempt someone. But especially when it was _him_. He couldn’t help loving him even more when Aziraphale acted like that. Having the angel tempt him and then Crowley indulging him made the demon impossibly happy.

“_A traitor angel for a traitor demon. Was the price worth turning against all the demons in Hell? Was it worth making me an enemy?_”

Crowley froze again at the whisper in his ear. It wasn’t real. Aziraphale didn’t hear it. He didn’t react. It couldn’t be real.

He wasn’t whispering in Crowley’s ear, like he was standing by his right side with all his rage, hatred, and possessiveness washing over him.

“_Did you think I would let you go? That I would let you betray us and all that we’ve worked towards? That you could betray **me**?_”

His grip on the angel tightened as Crowley struggled not to shudder. It wasn’t real. Everything was fine. It was only his imagination and nothing more.

Shifting slightly in the demon’s arms, Aziraphale asked, “Crowley? Are you all right?”

He was worried. He could hear the confused concern in the angel’s voice. And while his natural state for six thousand years was constant low-level anxiety, that had been improving since the Not-Quite-End-Of-Days. But Aziraphale sounded a little worried now.

Crowley wasn’t hiding his reaction as well as he thought. He needed to calm down and stop overreacting to something that wasn’t real. He shouldn’t scare Aziraphale like this.

“I’m fine, Angel,” he said quietly.

“_You will pay for your betrayal and for thinking that you could be free of me, my pretty little thing. I claimed you when you Fell. Every piece of you. Remember? That will never change. You will always belong to **me**._”

Don’t react. Don’t show any weakness. It wasn’t real. Lucifer wasn’t whispering in his right ear. Heaven and Hell were leaving them alone. They were safe.

Satan wasn’t about to show up and drag him off for a few sessions of Hell’s worst tortures. It was only paranoia and old fears. Old fears that had no place in the safety of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Especially old fears from something that happened over six thousand years ago. Why was he even thinking about it? There were plenty of other horrors, more _human_ horrors, that he could imagine instead. Starting with the entire Spanish Inquisition. That was the stuff of nightmares. Humans could be worse than any demon. Not enough alcohol in that entire place to deal with it. Or the Flood. That still bothered him when the weather got too bad for too long. A storm that lasted several days without end always seemed to drag up memories of crying voices gradually being choked out. Or when he found the bookshop burning. That was definitely the worst one. The most painful and intense fear, still raw and fresh in his mind.

If his rebellious imagination wanted to turn against him, it should have been one of those things. They were things that he’d thought about since the invention of metalwork. Why was he thinking about a topic that he’d avoided for thousands of years?

…Maybe because it wasn’t his imagination.

“_No matter how far that you run, no matter what tricks that you or that angel might pull, and no matter how hard that you might struggle to **crawl** away, you are still **mine**. Branded and mine, my bright and pretty thing. My claim is there, clear on your face for the world to see. But I’ve been too tolerant and merciful towards you and you’ve forgotten your place. And I will have to remind you that there are consequences for your actions. You and the principality may have been clever, but you will soon wish that you accepted the kindness of a quick execution._”

Oh fu—

“Crowley?”

It was real. Lucifer was actually whispering to him. In his right ear. Which was where his tattoo had been since the first time that he gained a corporeal body. Always there.

Stop breathing. Don’t need to do it, even if his body thought he did. And any breathing would spiral into a panic attack right now. Not helpful.

“Crowley?”

Six thousand years. He’d been sauntering around for six thousand years with that tattoo. He thought it looked _good_. But Satan did it. He left it behind. Some kind of connection right on his face. Could he use it for more than speaking? Spying? Tracking? Was that how he knew about the switch? What would he do? What did he want?

“_Crowley?_” Aziraphale carefully stepped out of the embrace and turned to face him, frowning in concern. “Are you certain that you’re quite all right? You’re shaking.”

As the angel reached up to cup his face, Crowley took a step back. Schooling his expression into something controlled and being thankful that he left his sunglasses on after all, he prepared to do something that he absolutely hated.

He was going to lie to his angel.

“I told you. I’m fine,” he said evenly. “Just a little chilly, Angel. But I think I’ll have to take a raincheck on dinner. I have plans this evening that I almost forgot about. Can I make it up to you another night?”

Aziraphale hesitated briefly, not looking entirely convinced, before giving Crowley a weak smile. One that made the racing organ in his chest ache. Crowley would apologize and give a proper excuse later. Right now, it was more important to figure out how to get rid of anything connecting him to Satan. And until he knew it was safe, Crowley couldn’t risk his angel. If Aziraphale knew, he would want Crowley to stay. He would want to help.

Or… if he knew, it might be just a little too much. The straw that broke the camel’s back. Something that pushed the angel too far over his limits. Loving a demon was one thing, but having Lucifer literally whispering in his ear… and…

He needed to get away and _fix_ this.

“I suppose that I will see you tomorrow?” said Aziraphale cautiously.

“If things go smoothly,” he said.

“_Whatever clever idea that you may be considering, it is doomed to failure. But take comfort. This is a personal matter, not one for all of Hell. No other demons will participate. Though I can’t promise that the principality will remain untouched. Aziraphale, I believe?_”

Fighting back another shudder of revulsion, Crowley moved towards the door. He barely heard the bell ring overhead as he nearly staggered out of the bookshop. He was shivering as he climbed into his Bentley, his corporeal body reacting to his thoughts and emotions without consulting with the rest of him.

It was probably for the best that his Bentley knew the way back to his flat because he couldn’t concentrate on where he was driving. He was miracling obstacles out of the way without really noticing what he was doing, so some of the results weren’t exactly smooth. At least one person suddenly found themselves on one side of the street and their bicycle on the other.

Being in Hell’s Really Bad Books was stressful enough. This was different. Everything was easier when he only dealt with commendations, uncomfortable compliments through his radio or television, and other distant or group-based interactions. Personal attention from the worst demon in Hell, the ruler and the one least likely to forgive or ignore a traitor, was on an entirely different level. And this…

He caught a glimpse of his reflection. His face looked too pale, which might explain part of the reason why Aziraphale didn’t seem to believe his reassurances. But he also saw the tattoo on his temple. And for the first time, he actually knew what it meant. What it symbolized and when it must have been forged. And he wanted it _gone_.

Crowley pushed his foot down harder and watched his speed climb. He and Aziraphale survived the world nearly ending and the backlash from their former sides. He drove across the burning M25. He _created _the M25. He could slither out of his problems if he put his mind to it. He’d been doing it for thousands of years. And as long as Satan stayed in Hell, he could fix this.

He would get rid of the problem and wouldn’t have to get Aziraphale involved. Wouldn’t put him in danger. And wouldn’t have to let his angel know there was something from the darkest part of Hell clinging to him for so long.

“I don’t even _work_ for him anymore,” he snarled, nearly hissing as fear tried desperately to twist into outrage instead. “He’s not my boss. Not in charge. Got no hold on me now. Shouldn’t. Won’t let him. Never again.” He inadvertently tightened his grip; hard enough that it should have hurt if he was paying attention to the bones in his hands and hard enough that it should have cracked the steering wheel if Crowley didn’t refuse to let his Bentley be damaged. “_Our side_. We’re on our own side. He’s not taking that. He’s not ruining this.”

If Lucifer left the tattoo on him, then Crowley would just have to get rid of it. No mark? No more creepy connection for Satan to whisper through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect an insanely fast update for the next one. I just so happened to have this one most written out by the time I posted the first chapter. The upcoming one will involve some waiting.


	3. Anxiety and Knives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m glad to see that people seem to be enjoying this fic already. Hopefully you’ll continue to enjoy it as we move forward.

Aziraphale watched through the window as the Bentley sped off, but his thoughts were carefully examining the last several minutes as he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. Because he wasn’t a fool. Oblivious and in denial at various points through the ages, but not a fool. The angel knew that Crowley wasn’t completely honest about being fine.

He knew the demon better than anyone else in Heaven, Hell, or Earth. He spent six thousand years getting to know him. Aziraphale knew his quirks, his moods, and his methods. He knew that Crowley’s biggest constant was his constant fondness for change. He didn’t know _everything_ about his demon, and he knew that he probably never would and the thought of always discovering new things about him was somehow thrilling. But Aziraphale knew more than anyone else.

He knew that Crowley had a soft spot for children. That he loved his car, his plants, and a certain angel. He knew that the best way to compliment his demon was to praise his accomplishments, his actions, and his ideas rather than just Crowley himself. Otherwise, he would just brush it off. He knew that he was kinder than he appeared and often tried to hide that kindness behind a façade of mischief or temptations. He knew that Crowley might act like he was a heartless demon, but he cared more than most angels that Aziraphale had dealt with.

And Aziraphale knew that when Crowley was hurt, upset, or scared, he would almost never admit it and would in fact try to hide it. It normally required vast amounts of alcohol to make him admit to any type of vulnerability. After all, Hell would always pounce on any weakness and that mindset took time to shift. So if he was upset, Crowley would rather bury it rather than drag it out for others to see.

Aziraphale knew that something was wrong, no matter how much Crowley tried to hide it. He’d felt his demon abruptly stiffen behind him and then start shivering. He’d heard Crowley’s distant and distracted tone, slow to respond to him and unnaturally empty of emotions. And he’d seen Crowley practically run out the door.

He wrapped his arms around himself. What did he say or do to upset Crowley so much? Aziraphale searched his recent memories for the crucial mistake.

Six thousand years of passive aggressive treatment from the other angels, doubting himself and always feeling like he wasn’t good enough, did not disappear quickly. His self-confidence had been eroded away by them with every encounter and it took time to recover and escape that much self-doubt. The fear of failing or ruining everything remained strong. Only now he was worried less about the opinions of the other angels and more about destroying the precious thing that he’d built with Crowley.

Admitting that he loved Crowley, in a different and more focused way than the general angelic love for everything, was a long journey with many bumps along the way. Some of those bumps were more like potholes. Or sinkholes that took out the entire road.

Aziraphale spent too long afraid to accept his own emotions. He didn’t want to think about them and tried to ignore his feelings, telling himself that it wouldn’t amount to anything regardless since everyone knew that demons were incapable of truly loving anyone. Even when his senses and all other evidence tried to disprove that belief. But admitting to the depths of his own feelings and accepting the overwhelming warmth that he constantly sensed radiating from Crowley was _love_, a love that was clearly growing stronger with each passing century, would have opened them to far worse dangers than mere “fraternizing.”

Specifically, dangers to Crowley. The worst that could happen to Aziraphale would be Falling; Crowley would face far graver consequences. Denial was the only option.

Aziraphale didn’t want to risk Crowley’s existence and tried to maintain a certain amount of distance between them, even if it was still closer than it should have been. And after 1941, any denial about his own or Crowley’s feelings were flimsy at best. Only after the world nearly ended, after they barely escaped executions, and after they cut all ties with their previous sides did Aziraphale finally find the courage to tell Crowley exactly how he felt.

Granted, that still took a couple months to actually tell him, but that was practically light speed in comparison to what he was attempting previously.

But before that admission and before they could settle into a more intimate relationship, Aziraphale knew that he’d hurt Crowley. More times than he could count. He never truly meant to do that. A few of those occasions came from the best of intentions, such as denying his demon access to holy water, but others were just mistakes or trying too hard to be the “obedient and loyal angel following the Great Plan.” The entire Fail-mageddon fiasco was practically a conga line of hurt feelings for everyone involved. Aziraphale regretted hurting Crowley so many times, in so many different ways. And he wanted to avoid doing anything like that again.

And yet he was afraid that he’d just hurt Crowley again today. He just wasn’t certain how.

What did he do? Was it getting caught up with rearranging the books and ignoring Crowley all day? It wasn’t the first time that type of thing had happened and he started cuddling right afterwards, so that was at least less likely the reason. Maybe it was something that Aziraphale said. Or didn’t say. Crowley said so many kind and wonderful things earlier. Maybe he was hurt that Aziraphale didn’t say anything back. Normally complimenting his demon directly didn’t work out well and either flustered or embarrassed him into rejecting it, possibly with some wall slamming. But maybe he should have tried. And maybe by not saying anything, he made Crowley start doubting how he felt.

His past actions would be enough to make anyone doubtful. And Crowley was always one to question. Not to mention that demons can’t sense love the same way that angels could. Maybe his silence was enough to spark some uncertainties.

Aziraphale hoped that wasn’t true. He loved Crowley. More than he could describe and more than he could possibly hide any longer. He loved every part of him. Not just his kindness and his caring heart, but also his mischievous sense of humor, his constant questions, and his refusal to accept any limitations. Crowley was always pushing, asking, and testing, pressing up against the edges because he knew that there was always the potential for something _more_. But no matter how much the demon might yearn to go further, he listened when Aziraphale told him it was too much, too fast. Because he was also patient and understanding, even when Crowley didn’t seem like the type on the surface. Everything about him was wonderful. Aziraphale hoped that Crowley knew how much he loved him, all the way down to his true form and demonic essence.

He'd once Looked at Crowley’s true form, back when he sheltered the demon from the first rain. He hadn’t settled into physical form completely at that point and didn’t mirror the humanoid appearance yet. Aziraphale was able to examine his natural demonic appearance as Crowley was distracted watching the departing pair of humans in the distance.

Other angels described demons as grotesque, vile, and disgusting. Twisted and uncanny mockeries of their angelic counterparts. Like looking at a funhouse mirror, everything slightly off. Not quite right on a fundamental level. And perhaps, after several thousand years of wallowing in hatred, fury, misery, and malicious behaviors, some of the demons reflected that in their true forms.

But Aziraphale didn’t see that. Not exactly. He saw something that had been broken by having a vital piece ripped out and the remaining fragments imperfectly repaired. And without that lost piece, the repairs resulted in a new shape out of necessity. It was rather like Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, though it would be thousands of years before he could make the comparison. He could see the damage that was left from the Fall, but it didn’t make Crowley ugly or horrifying to Look at.

It took six thousand years to admit it, but Aziraphale thought he looked…

He fumbled anxiously at the buttons of his waistcoat out of habit, nervous energy making it impossible to keep his hands still. Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d said or done. Despite his careful reflection, he didn’t know how he managed to hurt Crowley. And the wild theories that he was coming up with weren’t helping. He was just stressing himself out.

The best idea would be to give Crowley a little space. While he often liked to linger and orbit Aziraphale constantly, there were times that he needed a little distance and breathing room, despite not technically needing to breathe. It was part of the reason that he would still wear his sunglasses at times even when there was no one else in the building. And when the demon came back, Aziraphale would do everything possible to make up for whatever mistake that he’d made. By tomorrow, when Crowley sauntered back into the bookshop, hopefully things would be back to normal.

* * *

Along with reality TV, Crowley invented infomercials. When it came to wide-spread evil with minimal effort, they were amazing. Infomercials and The Home Shopping Network specifically were a continuous fountain of commercialized greed and gluttony, annoyingly energetic salespeople, and the frustration of finding nothing else to watch at three in the morning. They encouraged humans to buy dozens of useless trinkets and gadgets that they didn’t actually need, plunging them further and further into debt while cluttering up their homes, while also making insomniacs more miserable in the process.

Unfortunately, Crowley also succumbed to the temptation of his own creation. A couple sleepless nights in the nineties and he found himself owning super-absorbent towels sold by a man who could only speak at a constant shout, a fondue set that he’d never actually used and immediately tossed in a cabinet above the refrigerator, and a fancy set of eternally-sharp knives that could supposedly cut through anything ranging from a tomato to a steel pipe. He was lucky that he didn’t add a collection of weird porcelain animal figurines to the pile.

And as soon as Crowley rushed into his flat, he yanked open the kitchen drawers and retrieved one of the razor-sharp knives. Then he vanished into the sleek and modern bathroom. He needed the lighting, the mirror, the sink, and the fluffy black towels for what he had in mind.

He knew that there were ways to professionally remove tattoos. Humans developed that not too long after they figured out that permanently putting the name of a crush somewhere on their body might not always be the best idea. But Crowley didn’t know if that would work with a demonic brand that had been in place for thousands of years. He couldn’t risk half-measures. He _had_ to make sure that any trace of a connection was _gone_. And the fastest and most direct method would be to take it all off.

Crowley carefully removed his sunglasses and set them aside on the edge of the dark marble counter surrounding the sink. Then he stared in the mirror, the harsh lighting casting sharp shadows across his face and making him look exhausted. The dark serpentine mark stood out against his ashen complexion. Maybe it was his imagination, but Crowley thought it looked more ominous than normal.

His fingers tightened on the edge of the sink. He never suspected. Not once in six thousand years. Crowley always assumed that the snake tattoo on the side of his face was like his eyes. Just a feature of his corporeal form that he couldn’t change. But Lucifer placed it on him. He did that to Crowley. And the only time that he could have managed to form the connection would have been during that encounter right after the Fall.

He didn’t want to remember that encounter. That memory and the unpleasant mess of emotions were thoroughly tangled up with his memories of the Fall itself, just a giant knot of trauma that was better off ignored. He didn’t want to remember or think about it. And he definitely didn’t want anything binding him to the devil.

“_Does my clever pretty thing have an idea? I would have thought you knew better than to deny me what I want, darling._”

Shivering, Crowley gritted his teeth tight enough to make his jaw ache. Lucifer’s whispers made his skin crawl and his essence freeze. He didn’t know why it took this long for Lucifer to make his presence known, but Crowley wasn’t going to stand for it even a moment longer. He wanted Satan gone. Every trace of him.

He wouldn’t feel safe until he was gone. _Aziraphale_ wouldn’t be safe. And Crowley only knew of one way to ensure it.

Good thing that between his experiences on Earth and in Hell, Crowley was relatively used to dealing with pain.

Gripping the sharp knife firmly and turning his head slightly to make it easier to see the mark in the mirror, Crowley took a deep and unnecessary breath. Then, letting it out slowly and shakily, he pressed the tip against his skin and dragged the blade down.

Sharp pain followed the path of the knife as he carefully carved, moving around the serpentine brand. The only sound was the sharp hiss through his teeth. Crowley forced himself to keep steady and still as he worked. Pausing or stopping to catch his breath would only prolong things. It would only hurt worse if he didn’t finish quickly. His hand quickly grew slick and sticky; head wounds always bleed the worst and he was going fairly deep. He needed to be thorough. Nothing left behind.

Time seemed to be passing far too slowly. Barely moving at all. Crowley was relatively certain that he wasn’t messing with it this time. But removing the small tattoo shouldn’t feel like it was lasting forever.

Eventually he dropped the knife into the sink with a clatter, grabbing the edge of the marble while panting. Apparently these types of things hurt a lot more when you do them to yourself. His whole head seemed to be throbbing. The sink was splattered with red and he could feel it dripping down the side of his face. And he couldn’t stop shivering.

But it was gone. He tossed the bloody chunk of skin into the sink and snapped his fingers, incinerating it with a demonic miracle. The stench of burning flesh that suddenly cut through the coppery scent was disgusting, but also reassuring.

Gone. It was gone.

Crowley splashed some water on his face, trying to wash the worst of it away. The warm water stung the deep laceration. But that was fine. He would let it heal the slow way. He wouldn’t want to risk sparking something residual with a demonic miracle. But that was just him being overly cautious. The tattoo was nothing more than ashes now.

Another splash of water and he pressed a towel to the wound, causing the pain to sharpen for a moment before settling back to a dull throb. The bathroom looked like the scene of a gruesome murder. Blood splatters and knife included. But it was worth it to erase any trace that Lucifer left on him.

Grinning venomously at his reflection, Crowley snapped, “Your own kid kicked you off Earth. You’re stuck down there. You can’t _touch_ me here.”

It felt good to say it. To talk back. Especially when he was safe on Earth and knew that Lucifer couldn’t hear him. He felt some of the tension melting away and the uncontrolled shivering had stopped at some point.

Problem solved. Everything was fine.

“_Did you really think that it would be that easy?_”

If he hadn’t invested time and demonic miracles into some serious soundproofing for his flat, his neighbors would be complaining about Crowley’s loud and horrified cursing. In multiple languages. Some of which were several thousand years out of date.

Apparently when properly startled and terrified, he could beat Aziraphale on the out-of-date phrases thing.

“_You are **mine**. I claimed every part of you. I’ve buried myself down to your deepest core. All the way down to your essence. Remember? You can’t erase my touch that easily._”

Crowley scrambled backwards on the tiles. He didn’t know when he collapsed. His breathing was out of his control: too fast, too shallow, and uneven as it seemed to stick in his throat. And his heart pounded roughly in his chest. He didn’t need either of them technically, but he couldn’t concentrate and his body was running on autopilot.

“_While I adore the idea of watching you panic like you did the first time that I found you after the Fall_,” purred the voice in his ear, chilling Crowley further, “_I unfortunately have responsibilities that I need to attend to. I can’t **indulge** myself all the time_.”

And there was the uncomfortable shivering again. Every part of him was rebelling against the entire situation. This was wrong. Somehow this was worse than Satan bursting out of the ground, anger and hatred rolling off him in waves. At least then Lucifer’s attention was divided. Now it was focused solely on Crowley. And he could _feel_ the predatory possessiveness. Lucifer _wanted_ him to feel it.

It made his skin crawl so badly that he half-expected to start shedding.

“_Don’t fret, darling. I won’t leave you alone for long. I’ll be checking on you again soon enough._”

The foreign emotions faded, but there was no other sign that Lucifer’s attention had shifted. For all he knew, the devil could still be spying on him. He had no way of knowing for certain.

Crowley didn’t immediately climb back to his feet. He stayed on the tiles, his hands clenched tightly enough that his nails dug into his palms. He wrestled with his corporeal body’s panicked reactions, trying to force them to behave. His emotions churned together, impossible to separate and identify individually. Whatever he was feeling, it was dark and weighed heavily in his chest.

Since the whole exercise already proved to be pointless, Crowley brushed his hand across the deep gash and healed it with a demonic miracle. Wallowing in pain and blood loss wouldn’t help anything. Then he spat out a sharp curse towards the ceiling, an ancient Sumerian one that seemed the most appropriate for his current state of mind. Modern ones didn’t always have the same effect that he needed.

When he finally pulled himself back to his feet, Crowley noticed in the reflection that the tattoo looked exactly the same as before. Perhaps even darker and more distinct than before he picked up a knife. The connection was still there. And it ran even deeper than he thought. Too deep. Lucifer’s hooks were buried into him and Crowley didn’t know how to pry them out.

Honestly, all he wanted to do was go yell at his plants for various flaws and failures for a while before crawling off to his bed for the next couple decades. That sounded nice. Or actually, what he _really_ wanted to do was wrap himself around Aziraphale until he could forget what Lucifer sounded and _felt_ like. Several bottles of expensive wine might be needed to achieve the effect, but letting his angel’s presence and alcohol erase the entire evening from his mind sounded wonderful.

But that’s not what Crowley did.

First, he collected his shades and slid them back into place. Then, with a finger snap, he banished the remaining blood and knife. It left his bathroom spotless once more. Not a single hint left of his ill-conceived attempt to free himself of that extra demonic taint. Then he retreated back to the rest of the flat.

His mobile, like most of his belongings, was top-of-the-line and state-of-the-art. And like most mobiles by that point, it was capable of accessing the internet and using voice commands. Yet another wonder of modern technology and human cleverness. The fact that his mobile never needed to be charged, however, was purely Crowley’s doing. But he felt relatively confident as he dug out his mobile. With all that information at his fingertips, devising a new plan on how to fix things should be a snap.

Speaking clearly and slowly, Crowley said, “Find ‘how to exorcise the devil out of a demon without exorcising the other demon.’”

“There are no restaurants with that name in your area,” replied the cheerful robotic voice from his phone.

“Oh, for G— Sa— For _Somebody’s_ sake.” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, a memory prickling helpfully at the back of his mind. “I helped come up with the _blessed_ voice recognition search thing, didn’t I?”

Fine. Forget the mobile. He had a laptop stashed away. Nice, sleek, and never been used. It shouldn’t be too hard to run a quick internet search on it. With access to nearly all of human creativity and imagination, finding a new solution shouldn’t take long.

This wasn’t so bad. He survived the fourteenth century and that was awful. He could handle this. A little research and everything would just fall right into place. He could fix this. There had to be a simple solution to getting rid of any trace of Lucifer.

Crowley did his best to ignore how that entire train of thought sounded exactly like Aziraphale claiming that if he could get in contact with the right people, Heaven would halt the Apocalypse because the other angels couldn’t _possibly_ want an actual war. He wasn’t being stupidly naïve and stubbornly in denial. He wasn’t ignoring the obvious truth.

There had to be a way. There had to be a chance. He needed that hope.

It was all that he had.

* * *

Crowley didn’t visit the bookshop the next day.

Nor did Aziraphale see him the next day. Or the day after that. Or the next week.

Aziraphale tried not to worry. He did his best to convince himself that it didn’t mean anything. Once upon a time, they could go for centuries without running into each other. Though, to be fair, it was usually only a few decades at a time during most of the last couple of millennia. But even by those standards, a week or two was almost nothing.

But during their time watching over Warlock, their roles as the nanny and the gardener meant that they remained in near constant contact for several years. And after Nope-mageddon, they tended to see each other every day or two. Making up for lost time, as Crowley once put it. Going back to long stretches where he barely saw Crowley again seemed impossible for Aziraphale to imagine.

After a few days, Aziraphale broke down enough to try calling him. He wanted to hear his voice. And in the past, Crowley would always answer when he called. Sometimes he would let it go to the annoying machine at first, but then he would pick up after Aziraphale spoke a couple sentences. But not this time. Every call was ignored. Every single one. And Crowley never called back.

How much must he have hurt him in order to drive Crowley away so thoroughly? Aziraphale wasn’t even certain what he’d done. Not completely. He just kept going over everything and tying himself up in mental knots with guilt. He desperately wanted Crowley to stop avoiding him. How could he make up for his obviously-horrible mistake if he couldn’t reach him? If Crowley would simply tell him what he’d done wrong, Aziraphale would apologize immediately and beg for a second chance.

But with each passing day, he felt worse. Guilt and regret weighed heavily on the angel. The normal quiet of his bookshop now felt suffocating rather than peaceful and comforting. Anxiety scraped across his nerves as doubts continued to whisper in the back of his head. He’d ruined it. Somehow, he ruined everything. He could feel it. Everything seemed wrong and he didn’t know how to fix it. Because he wasn’t even certain how he broke them in the first place.

He thought about going to Crowley’s flat. The idea kept drifting across his mind every few hours. He knew where it was, even if he hadn’t set foot there since the night after the Apoca-Oops. It wouldn’t be too hard to reach the flat.

But as much as Aziraphale might wish otherwise, he was a coward. Yet another flaw to add to his growing list. He was too scared to take that step. Because if he pushed things by showing up in person at Crowley’s house and the demon turned him away, that would be it. That would mean that he’d hurt the demon too much and there was no going back. And that would break Aziraphale’s heart in a way that he wasn’t certain that he could survive.

He couldn’t risk it.

So Aziraphale waited and hoped. He hoped that Crowley would come back soon. Because if he came back to the bookshop, if he answered the phone, or if he reached out to Aziraphale in any way, that meant that the angel still had a chance to make things right. He held onto that hope. Because Aziraphale didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t bear the idea of a future without him.

Love is patient. Love is kind. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

If he needed to wait for Crowley, then Aziraphale would be patient. He would wait however long that it might take. Because he loved Crowley. Truly and completely. Even if he inadvertently must have hurt him yet again, Aziraphale loved him.

And he knew that Crowley loved him. He’d felt it for too long and too strongly for the angel to ever doubt that fact. And he hoped that Crowley’s love would be enough for the demon to eventually forgive Aziraphale for his mistake and come back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, there is a bit of a miscommunication going on between our angel and demon pair. They really need to work on that talking thing. And Aziraphale needs to work on his anxiety and guilt left over from how the other angels interacted with him.


	4. Taunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is miserable. Aziraphale is miserable. Everyone in this fic is miserable. Except Lucifer. Because he’s evil and tormenting Crowley. We don’t like him.

Crowley snarled at the kentia palm plant with a couple leaflet that looked like they might be on the verge of wilting at the tips. But even as he yelled at the trembling plants, he knew that he was really stretching things when it came to excuses.

The houseplants were fine. The broadleaf lady palm, the Madagascar dragon tree, the rubber plant, the areca palm, and even the overly-dramatic coral bead plant that was just so picky about its watering and light demands were all growing beautifully. They were meeting his expectations perfectly. Even the rattlesnake plant, which he only owned because the name amused him and because the different splotches of green on one side of the leaves contrasted nicely with the reddish-purple undersides, didn’t show a single flaw.

His entire collection of plants was meeting his admittedly-high, but achievable expectations. He had no reason to punish them. No reason to yell. They were just convenient targets for his dark and churning glob of emotions.

Looking for solutions on the internet wasn’t exactly going according to plan. Finding some rather poorly-made porn with the “actors” wearing plastic horns? Easy. Finding reliable sources describing how to pry the devil out of another demon’s essence? Not so much. Most of what he found seemed to be made up at random without any rhyme or reason. Or possibly made up by someone who watched “The Exorcist” a couple times and used their imagination from there. All of the suggestions would either be useless, less-than-useless, or probably fatal for any human or demon dumb enough to try it. Possibly fatal on multiple levels.

He’d worked his way through the different sites methodically. Occasionally he would alter the search criteria, trying to trick the internet into actually offering something helpful. But eventually he would lose focus, growing too frustrated and needing to take a break to yell at his plants for an hour.

But he couldn’t give up. Crowley kept looking for answers because he refused to accept defeat. And staring at the glowing screen was a useful distraction whenever Lucifer’s attention drifted towards him.

Satan apparently _did_ have responsibilities that prevented him from spying on Crowley constantly. Though the only way that Crowley could know for certain when he was paying attention was from Lucifer’s comments. And every unexpected whisper or wave of unwanted emotion through that connection sent of a spike of ice to the demon’s core. He hated it. Lucifer never did more than talk during the days that Crowley was searching desperately for an escape. But the devil would describe in excruciating detail exactly how Lucifer would love to punish him. In person. Quite vivid descriptions.

Though Crowley certainly preferred that to when he waxed poetically about the past or when Lucifer would promise to subject Aziraphale to the worst tortures that Hell could devise.

Aziraphale. Something twisted in Crowley’s chest. He missed his angel.

But he couldn’t risk it. Not with Lucifer’s increasingly-graphic threats hanging over Aziraphale. Threats whispered by the devil himself. And not when Crowley wanted desperately to fix this without letting Aziraphale know about any of it. Crowley couldn’t bear the idea of the angel finding out.

He didn’t know how he would look at Crowley with that knowledge. The knowledge that the devil had his hooks buried into his very essence for thousands of years. For the entire time that he knew Aziraphale. There were certain things that his angel never signed on for. How would the angel look at him? With pity? Or disgust?

He couldn’t risk it. Any of it. For now, he would keep some distance until he found a way to rip every shred of Lucifer out of him. It was the best option.

Besides, as long as Satan only kept his creepy and terror-inducing impact to his life as unnerving whispers, Crowley could handle the problem until he found a solution. He could deal with this. It was fine.

His options were running thin though. The internet wasn’t turning up anything useful. There were too many results that weren’t even remotely connected to what he was looking for. He needed other sources. More reliable and sensible sources.

Crowley tossed his spray bottle aside and stalked out of the room. He ended up sprawled bonelessly in his ornate chair, halfway considering whether or not to switch on an episode of “The Golden Girls” as a distraction.

He could try calling Book Girl. Anathema. She considered herself an occultist and spent years reading those prophecies. She might have some insight. Or he could see if Adam still had enough of his powers to kick Satan out of Crowley’s essence the same way that the boy kicked him off the planet. But Anathema tended to talk with Aziraphale enough that swearing her to secrecy would be pointless and Crowley didn’t even know how to start explaining the situation to a human child.

The only other place that Crowley could reasonably come up with that might have the answers that he desperately needed was the bookshop. While Aziraphale resisted any possibility of selling his merchandise, he kept the more dangerous volumes on the second floor to remove temptation from reach. And yes, Crowley did chuckle at the phrasing the first time the angel mentioned it. There were books with knowledge that it was best not to allow into hands of casual readers. The types of books with actual information on angels and demons that could get humans killed if misused. Aziraphale kept the books close to him and out of innocent hands. It was the safest thing to do other than destroying them. If there were any accurate descriptions on how to pry Lucifer’s influence and power out of Crowley, it would be in the bookshop.

But therein lay the problem. It was Aziraphale’s bookshop. And there was no possible way that Crowley would be able to search the shelves for the appropriate tomes without his angel knowing. If Aziraphale saw him reading some of his private and more dangerous books, there would be questions. Questions that Crowley couldn’t bring himself to answer.

So, no, that wasn’t an option.

Crowley rubbed the bridge of his nose. At this rate, he might have to go disturb Shadwell in his retirement and see if any of his weird witchfinder artifacts could offer possibilities. And _that_ random thought told him exactly how drained his pool of ideas truly was at the moment.

Maybe a good night’s sleep would help. He was rather used to sleeping by now. But ever since this started, he couldn’t bring himself to try. Demons weren’t supposed to be afraid of nightmares. That didn’t mean Crowley wanted to risk it. He didn’t want to see what his imagination would conjure. But at this point, weariness and frustration were winning out over his dread and fear.

As long as Lucifer remained solely as evil whispers and unnerving feelings, some of the absolute terror was bound to dull a little with time and exposure. Fear was impossible to permanently maintain at a high level constantly.

Crowley shoved himself out of his chair. Sleep. Maybe he could manage a few hours of sleep. And when he woke up, hopefully his head would be clear enough for him to come up with a better idea than “ask Shadwell.”

“_Have you given up your pointless attempt to break away from me, darling? As entertaining as it is, you must realize that you can’t escape._”

And even as Crowley shuddered at Lucifer’s whisper and wanted to claw uselessly at the side of his head, the fear twisted into something burning and sharp-edged. A cornered snake tends to bite back.

“Shut _up!_” he snarled.

“_Excuse me?_”

“Shut up. I’ve been listening to you for days and I don’t want to hear another word.” Crowley realized it was a mistake the moment that he opened his mouth, but over a week of stress and fear combined with the general dread of the last six thousand years and the result came tumbling out in a vicious stream. “In case my actions during the failed apocalypse didn’t make it clear enough, I ressssign. I don’t belong to Hell anymore. I don’t belong to you. I don’t have to lisssten to you. Sssso shut up and let me sleep in peace. Not that you can stop me. All you’ve been able to do is talk. You’re _powerless_.”

It felt nice to yell at someone other than his terrified plants. For just a second. Then a wave of absolute rage, almost as strong as what Crowley felt washing over him that day on the airbase, hit him hard enough to knock him to his knees. He couldn’t help whimpering in terror. Choking, suffocating, and sickening terror.

And suddenly the demon was reminded exactly _why_ Lucifer was in charge of Hell. And why he should be afraid.

“_Powerless? Apparently I have been too kind and gentle, my pretty thing. You have forgotten who I am. But I haven’t forgotten you or what you’ve done. And betrayal carries a heavy price._” Crowley could practically feel the predatory grin on the devil’s face. “_It is time that for you to start paying it._”

The human body contains thousands of nerve endings. A specific kind, nociceptors, are sensory neurons that respond to damaging or potentially damaging stimuli by sending signals to the spinal cord and the brain. In other words, they were responsible for the sensation of pain.

And without any outward sign of his intention, Lucifer took control and activated Crowley’s nociceptors. All of them.

Crowley screamed, collapsing to the ground. White-hot, blinding, and intense agony burned every inch of his physical body, inside and out. Limbs twitched and flailed uselessly as he instinctively tried to escape.

_It hurt, it hurt, it **hurt!**_

Pain consumed everything. He couldn’t make it stop. He couldn’t think. And he couldn’t stop screaming.

He should have passed out. The human body could only endure that level of pain for so long before it overwhelmed the brain and it would either go numb from adrenaline or would lose consciousness as a defense. But Crowley’s corporeal body refused to be that kind. Lucifer refused to be that kind. Because Lucifer was the one who was in control. Crowley’s physical form was responding to Satan’s desires.

Crowley couldn’t escape the overwhelming agony. Every nerve was on fire, reacting to the most intense pain and never stopping.

Then, after an eternity of the white-hot agony, the sensation cut off suddenly to leave Crowley shivering and gasping desperately. His throat was raw from screaming and his muscles ached deeply, the tension from the pain slipping away more slowly. But the impossibly sharp and intense agony was gone. His body just buzzed and tingled at the sudden loss of the sensation, trying to adapt to what just happened.

His body. His physical shape. His corporeal form.

Didn’t really feel like it belonged to Crowley anymore. Not when someone else could apparently hack their way in.

At least he’d soundproofed his flat a while back or else the old woman downstairs would be getting worried about the noise. And where did his shades go? He must have lost them at some point. What was that persistent ringing? The telephone?

His thoughts were a bit fragmented and scattered as he struggled to pull himself together. He couldn’t focus properly. But maybe that was for the best. Everything felt wrong and he hated it.

“_You are mine. Every part of you. I control every piece of you. And there is nothing that you can do to change that. You are the one who is powerless._”

The pain hit again, Crowley’s head snapping back as a scream was torn out of him. Agony burned everywhere. Like drowning in boiling sulfur. Like holy water scorching through his veins. Like nothing that the demon could imagine. He couldn’t stop screaming long enough to breathe.

At some point, Crowley lost his grip on his humanoid shape. Fewer limbs lashing out in pain. Instead a large snake writhed and coiled around itself in a desperate attempt to _make it stop, please!_

“_Perhaps you would like to beg for forgiveness?_” he suggested with a sharp edge to his voice, halting the pain abruptly. “_Not that it will necessarily help. Unforgivable and all that. But you never know. I might consider giving you a short reprieve. Perhaps ten minutes?_”

Crowley needed a moment to catch his breath before he managed to hiss out two words. Neither word could technically be hissed and neither word could be considered a request for forgiveness. Crowley was fairly certain that Aziraphale probably wouldn’t even say the first word. But he hissed it out venomously regardless of how much his survival instinct begged him not to do it.

“_Do you speak to your precious angel like that? Does he enjoy your sharp tongue and the hint of danger, lurking around with a demon? How **did** you manage to tempt that little principality? Is he drawn towards your darkness or that bright and lingering spark?_”

Fear and anger prickled under his scales. The utter wrongness and his feeling of desperation tightened like a knot inside Crowley. He wanted to escape, but he couldn’t get away from something inside him. He wanted to be free. Crowley wanted every trace of the devil scoured from every part of him.

But more importantly, he wanted Lucifer to ignore Aziraphale.

Crowley could still feel the devil’s rage, but now a hint of vicious pleasure began to leak through. And the only thing more terrifying than Lucifer being angry was him being _happy_ about something.

His breathing hitched, but Crowley did his best to brace himself for another round of pain. He could endure this. He survived the fourteenth century and what was foretold to be the end of the world. He could handle whatever Satan did next.

“_I see. I haven’t been keeping my word. I told you that I would ensure that you would never be empty and alone again. But then I ignored you for too long, leading you to seek out that foolish angel to fill the hollowness._” The chuckle that followed sent a chill down Crowley’s long serpentine spine. “_I will need to correct that._”

Before Lucifer had forced every nerve in the demon’s body to experience the absolute limits of pain. Now he did the opposite. With all the strength, speed, and subtlety of an out-of-control train, the entire nervous system of his exhausted and aching corporeal body was hit by the sensation of impossible amounts of pleasure.

It wasn’t pain, but that didn’t make it better. Too intense with no build up. And no relief. No end. As abrupt as a lightning strike, but one that continued forever. The intense sensation felt good in a way, but it was too much for too long. Leaving him dangling on the edge of a cliff, unable to fall or pull himself back up. It twisted around until it transformed into a new form of suffering. And Lucifer held him there: a coiling and frantic serpent on the floor, curling in on himself in a desperate attempt to find relief. Lucifer kept him in that intense and overwhelming state until Crowley would have begged for discorporation if he could do more than whimper.

Then with the suddenness of flipping a switch, the pleasure cut off and the white-hot agony swallowed him again. He couldn’t scream. Not anymore. But the abrupt change of extremes made the pain somehow hit harder. Crowley couldn’t block it out and he couldn’t make it stop. It just seemed to go on forever, beyond what he could bear.

And then just as abruptly, pain turned into overwhelming and impossible pleasure. Too much. Everything was too much. Crowley couldn’t stand it a moment longer. But it kept going. On and on.

Then it changed into pain again. Back and forth. Over and over again. One would last for what felt like a thousand years before flipping to the other. Crowley couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe_, as his entire body reacted to Lucifer’s idea of punishment.

_Angel_. Part of him cried out desperately for help subconsciously, wanting everything to stop. _Aziraphale_. He couldn’t verbally call out. He couldn’t even think to try. But a tiny part of his mind begged for safety, for comfort, for warmth and love, for home.

And then it stopped. His nerves prickled and tingled, chills running along his body. His muscles ached. But the agony and the nearly-painful pleasure was gone. If serpents could weep from relief, tears would already be streaming down his scales. Instead, he breathed desperately in what could only be described as choked sobs.

“_I suppose that should be enough for the moment_,” he purred, once more causing Crowley to flinch. His mortal terror of the devil had been forcibly renewed. “_I wouldn’t want to completely **shatter** you too soon._”

The feelings of aggression and vindictive pleasure faded slowly. But Crowley didn’t change back to his human shape. He stayed on the cool floor, unable to bring himself to slither away. Not yet. He twisted into the tiniest spiral possible, tight enough that his coiled muscles ached. And if he pretended that the pressure of his own coils were someone’s arms around him, Crowley didn’t have to admit it.

He had to tear Lucifer out of himself. Crowley needed to find a way out of this soon. He didn’t know how long he could survive now that Lucifer had decided to take more direct action. And he no longer felt safe assuming that he knew the limits of the devil’s hold on him.

His corporeal body could be forced to experience sensations at Lucifer’s whim. Being on Earth was no longer a guarantee of safety. His physical form, which he’d been inhabiting for thousands of years, was currently Lucifer’s toy. Thinking about it made him feel like someone was clenching and squeezing on his very essence.

Maybe someone was. He couldn’t tell anymore.

“What am I supposed to do?” asked Crowley quietly. “Give me a sign. A hint. _Anything_. Please, if you ever cared, tell me. Just one answer. Just one. How do I fix this?”

But his soft and desperate prayer seemed to go unanswered. A fact that did not surprise him. He was never answered by Her. And if She cast him out so easily, why would She care what befell him afterwards? Crowley tucked his head into his dark coils. And when the phone stopped ringing, he barely noticed.

* * *

Aziraphale stared up at the building, trying to spot Crowley’s flat from the ground level. The cool night air and the relative quiet of the street gave off the illusion of being alone. He couldn’t see the stars. But that didn’t surprise him. Between the faint cloud cover and the light pollution, even angelic senses would struggle to spot those distant pinpricks of light.

He didn’t know what prompted him to come. Nothing had actually changed. He’d been calling for almost two weeks with no answer, though the urge seemed to hit harder that evening and he’d called more times that normal. And when the stubborn demon still refused to answer and the uneasy feeling didn’t dissipate, the angel found himself leaving the comfort of his bookshop to head for the flat.

Rational thought and planning had no place in the entire process.

The uncomfortable feeling, the sense that something was gravely wrong, kept bubbling in his chest. The nearly overwhelming urge to seek out Crowley gnawed at him. Aziraphale’s worries and doubts at what he’d done wrong to drive him away took a backseat for the moment. He couldn’t shake off the unease.

But when he reached the actual building, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to go inside. He just lurked out on the sidewalk. The unsettling feeling and the urge to find Crowley remained a twisting knot in his stomach. It didn’t ease or fade. But he finally realized what he was doing. He was standing outside Crowley’s home at three in the morning after he spent days avoiding Aziraphale.

He shouldn’t push things. Aziraphale wanted to see him, to make certain that Crowley was _safe_ because some ingrained instinct was begging him to reach the demon. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to step inside and go up to the proper floor. Aziraphale couldn’t impose his presence on Crowley. Not if he didn’t want to see or speak to the angel.

He stared up at the building, not knowing which darkened window might be the right one. He wanted to go up there and beg Crowley for forgiveness, to plead to know what he’d done wrong, and to ease the feeling of some ominous worry. But he couldn’t do that.

Aziraphale promised himself to be patient. He would wait until Crowley was ready. He could give him that much.

Straightening his coat, Aziraphale forced himself to turn around and start walking away. The unnerving sensation didn’t disappear and he didn’t wonder if the feeling was anything similar to the protective instinct that always warned Crowley when the angel was in trouble. And Aziraphale didn’t follow the sensation up to the flat where the Serpent of Eden shivered in a tight coil.

Such is the issue that comes with free will. People do not always choose the paths that they should.

* * *

Crowley moved among his collection of plants, going through his regular routine. He carefully examined every leaf and stem for signs of weakness and disease. He checked the pots for the appropriate amounts of moisture, taking care not to under or overwater any of his various houseplants. He breathed in the scents around his indoor garden, paying attention to whether or not the nitrogen and other components in the soil was correctly balanced for each species. He turned the pots slightly or even repositioned them to ensure the optimal amounts of sunlight. Clinical examinations of the plants led to careful pruning to specific spots to ensure the health of the overall specimens. And he snarled out a few generalized threats, just to make certain that they didn’t start slacking off.

He might hold his houseplants to high standards, but not unachievable ones. Crowley gave the plants everything that they needed to thrive. He did everything to take care of them to ensure that they could theoretically reach those standards. He did not ask the impossible of them.

But sometimes they made inexcusable mistakes despite his actions, wilting and developing leaf spots against his clear commands. Or sometimes they refused to grow even when the conditions were perfect for them. If they failed to flourish, it was their fault. Their wrong decisions. And they deserved to be punished for their choice. Such rebellion and unworthiness deserved to be struck down without mercy. It was the only way.

If they were found unworthy, they were cast out.

Crowley went through this familiar routine. He didn’t have to think as he took care of his beautiful and healthy houseplants. They were all currently thriving under his care, even if the kentia palm plant still looked a little frightened by his threats from the day before. That didn’t stop him from being thorough as he carefully looked them over and ensured they were in good condition. And if his hands occasionally shook that morning, he ignored it. It wasn’t as if his plants would tell anyone.

They knew better than to consider it.

“You know that is the wrong shade,” he snapped at the coral bead plant, the overly-dramatic thing. “We both know that you have the perfect amount of light and water. You have no excuse not to have the brightest red beads growing on you. You’re literally named for the things. I expect better.” Crowley turned towards the rattlesnake plant. “And _you_. I moved you into a larger pot almost a month ago. You’ve had time to start spreading your roots out. You should be showing better progress. You’ve got one more week to shape up or else you’re not going to be around much longer.”

The rattlesnake plant shivered at his words, but tried to straighten enough to look taller. Normally, plants have no form of sentience. They lacked anything resembling a central nervous system, let alone a brain or consciousness. But any plants that Crowley encountered was expected to be capable of being terrified by his threats, which led to them having basic self-awareness and emotions. The Expectations of a demon won out over the limitation of biology. Which led to room full of sentient houseplants capable of enjoying proper-sized pots of soil, warm sunlight, cool water, and knowledgeable care from a skilled gardener and being absolutely terrified of death threats.

Adding a little more water to the rattlesnake plant’s soil, he snapped, “One week or else. Got it?”

“_You seem to be enjoying yourself, darling._”

Crowley startled, nearly dropping his spray bottle. His heartbeat nearly tripled in speed from panic. Not again. He couldn’t be back already.

“_I will have to put a stop to that._”

A strange feeling, like fog pouring into his mind, poured over Crowley. His thoughts slowed and dulled. And while he rarely bothered with the action, Crowley blinked and—

—hands yanked him back on the sidewalk, a large bus barreling through the spot that Crowley was standing just a moment before.

“Sir, are you all right?” asked the man who yanked him back. “Sir?”

Crowley barely noticed the question. Disoriented, he glanced around rapidly at his surroundings. He was outside, quite far away from his flat. He didn’t remember leaving. He didn’t remember walking to this corner of London. He didn’t remember how he ended up almost discorporating himself via a speeding bus.

Shaking off the concerned human who was still asking too many questions that Crowley couldn’t start to answer, he tried to figure out what happened. Lucifer whispered something and then Crowley was randomly in traffic. Did he teleport? While short-range teleportation to somewhere within sight could be useful for dramatic entrances, using miracles to go or send someone further away was more random. You could never tell where the destination would be.

Then he noticed a scent clinging to him. Smoke. And ash was smudged into his clothes. Crowley could smell it all over him. He’d been near fire for an extended period of time. When was he near fire?

“_Confused, my pretty thing? I could have made you watch, but I wanted to surprise you. You’ve been a rather busy demon._”

“What did you do?” he asked quietly.

“_That’s the wrong question. You should ask ‘what did **you** do,’ darling. I’m afraid that you destroyed something of yours. Something that you seemed rather fond of. But you shouldn’t be that surprised. Demons have a tendency to destroy precious and fragile things._”

Crowley almost demanded a straight answer from the devil, too frustrated and confused, but then a horrified realization hit him hard enough that he stopped breathing. Smoke and ash clinging to him. Fire. He’d burned something. Lucifer made him burn something. The devil turned him into a puppet and made him burn something without Crowley being aware of his actions.

He burned something. Something important to Crowley.

_Aziraphale_.

Several people on the sidewalk were abruptly shoved to the ground as a frantic and desperate demon hurried past. Memories of a burning bookshop flashed through his mind. He couldn’t see past those images.

It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have done that. Please, not his angel. Not him.

Because if Lucifer made him burn Aziraphale, it wouldn’t be a normal fire. It would have been hellfire. And if that was what happened…

Please, no, not him. Please. It can’t be true.

He couldn’t have hurt his angel. He would have died first.


	5. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have been speculating on what exactly Lucifer had Crowley do while under his control at the end of the last chapter. I have enjoyed reading people’s reactions and theories. I hope the wait hasn’t been too awful.

Even if it took a while, _too long_, to find his way back, the Bentley was still closer than the bookshop. But the car’s speed somehow managed to break Crowley’s previous records. Countless drivers on the road were left traumatized and in need of extensive therapy. Some would have nightmares of a black streak for years to come. Only those who lived and worked the closest to the bookshop could shrug off the worst of the damage due to previous exposure. But even the locals noticed that something was terribly wrong from the particularly reckless driving and the way the red-head with sunglasses practically threw himself out of the vehicle before the Bentley came to a complete stop.

Desperate and unsteady legs barely holding him upright, Crowley flung himself towards the bookshop. The lack of flames engulfing the building should have been reassuring. But the stench of smoke and ashes still clung to him and his clothes, impossible to ignore or escape. Blind terror, horror, and dread clawed and tore at him.

What had he done? What did Lucifer make him do? What happened to his angel?

Slamming the door open hard enough that the bell should have snapped and flown off to a distant corner of the bookshop, Crowley shouted, “_Aziraphale!_”

His panicked and terrified voice was answered by the sound of something heavy falling to the ground and frantic running feet. Crowley only had a moment of relief washing over him when a worried angel appeared around the corner of a bookshelf, _alive_ and _safe_, before realizing that now he needed to explain to Aziraphale why he burst in like the forces of Hell were after him.

He couldn’t use the truth. He needed to make up an excuse that sounded plausible. And fast.

“Crowley, are you all right?” asked Aziraphale worried, stopping right in front of the demon. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

Trying to force himself to sound mostly calm wasn’t easy. Especially when he couldn’t sound _too_ calm. Not after his dramatic entrance. But at least he wasn’t panting for breath. Crowley wasn’t certain if his physical body had bothered to breathe since Lucifer’s last remark.

Letting just enough emotion slip into his voice to ensure his earlier outburst didn’t seem too over the top, he said, “Angel, look, I— _gah_— You see, I’m so sorry. Been working on a big project. Got to keep myself busy in retirement. Think you’ll be impressed. But I lost track of time. Too distracted, I guess. And I just realized how long its been. I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to ignore you like that. Guess I messed up a bit, didn’t I?”

The lies tumbled from his tongue far too easily, like those he’d spoken to humans and various demons for thousands of years. But the words made his entire mouth taste like bile. He wasn’t supposed to lie to Aziraphale. Not him. He was lying to his angel when all Crowley wanted to do was curl around him protectively, breathing in the comforting scents of _Aziraphale_ and _safety_ and _love_. He just wanted to bask in the angel’s warmth and the fact that he was _alive_.

But the mark on the side of his head, the foreign _taint_ buried into his essence, meant that it wasn’t safe. _Crowley_ wasn’t safe to be around.

Aziraphale, however, didn’t seem completely reassured by the lies. Unsurprising when Crowley burst into the bookshop, not bothering to hide how terrified he was that he would only find ashes instead of his angel. Crowley’s excuse couldn’t completely explain away his earlier behavior. There was still a tension around Aziraphale’s eyes as he studied Crowley’s face. The angel’s expression reminded him too much of how Heaven made him look, uncertain and far too small. But Aziraphale was too polite for his own good sometimes. And after all this time, he trusted Crowley. So he didn’t take the demon by the shoulders and shake an answer out of him, even if he was clearly still worried. And he didn’t ask for the truth or accuse Crowley of not being honest. Instead, he gave the demon a weak and fragile smile.

“I suppose I can understand losing track of time. I’ve done the same when I’ve been distracted by my books,” he said. Then, looking a little brighter, Aziraphale asked, “What kind of project have you been working on, my dear?”

“A surprise. I’ll tell you all about it when I’m done.”

Crowley buried his guilt as much as possible. He was doing this for both of them. It was his only real option. He needed to make his excuses and get out of there before something happened. Lucifer was clearly not paying attention at the moment; if he was, then Crowley would be feeling his vicious pleasure about Crowley’s earlier panic. The devil was probably dealing with something in Hell. But that distraction wouldn’t last forever and Crowley needed to be gone before Satan decided to play with his puppet again.

Thinking about how easily he could use and control Crowley twisted and tied his gut into knots. Lucifer’s grip was too strong and he was buried to deep. He could quite easily force Crowley to march right back into Hell. Or just have him discorporate himself by diving in front of another bus or something. Then Crowley would be back within the devil’s grasp, completely at his mercy and with no hope of escape. He would be trapped there with Lucifer to be punished however he saw fit.

And there was absolutely nothing that Crowley could do to stop it. Not unless he found something to rip Lucifer’s power out of him.

Smiling and hoping that his sunglasses hid how empty his smile truly was, Crowley continued, “But I’m going to make it up to you. For ignoring you for so long.”

“Really, it’s quite all right. I’m not that upset about it. As long as you’re not upset with me.”

Staring in surprise, Crowley asked quietly, “Why would I be upset with you?” Then, taking a second to shake his head, he continued, “Nah, I’m good. But all that radio silence? I’m going to make it up to you. How about you meet me at St. James Park tomorrow? By the duck pond? How does two o’clock sound?”

Some of the tension began to fade further from the angel’s gaze and his smile warmed. The urge to wrap his arms around Aziraphale, to hold him close until the angel relaxed completely and they both felt better, felt overwhelming. But Crowley had thousands of years of experience denying himself what he wanted, especially when it came to what was best concerning Aziraphale.

“That sounds lovely,” said Aziraphale. “And perhaps dinner tomorrow evening at some point?”

He looked so hopeful. So hopeful, wonderful, and _alive_. And Crowley would ensure that his precious angel remained safe. He would do anything to protect Aziraphale. But right now, the biggest threat to the angel was Crowley himself.

Crowley said gently, “Of course, Angel. That would be perfect.”

When Aziraphale reached towards him, Crowley tried to act as if he didn’t notice the gesture and casually stepped out of the way. He turned and sauntered back in the direction of the door. He kept his movements more casual than his arrival.

Everything was fine. That’s the impression that he was trying his best to convey. He needed his angel to believe that everything was fine.

“I’ll meet you at the park tomorrow morning then,” continued Crowley. “Ciao.”

* * *

As the door jingled quietly and the bookshop was empty once more, the angel stood still wringing his hands for a few moments. Then he started gathering a few supplies.

The uneasy sensation of something being terribly wrong, the one that had sent Aziraphale standing outside the demon’s flat the night before, hadn’t faded. Not even slightly. And the brief conversation with Crowley somehow made the feeling worse. Something was wrong with him.

He’d known that before. But now, Aziraphale didn’t believe that he was the source of the problem. It wasn’t him that upset Crowley and caused the demon to avoid him for a couple weeks. This was something else.

Because if it was due to a mistake on Aziraphale’s part that day, then Crowley wouldn’t have run into the bookshop with a terrified shout that felt like a stab to the angel’s heart. The desperation and fear in his voice sparked a strong protective reaction in Aziraphale, feeding into that uneasy feeling of dread that he’d been combating all day. Crowley bursting in and shouting his name proved that the demon needed help.

It wasn’t the sound of someone angry with Aziraphale and avoiding him. And it wasn’t the sound of someone who was merely worried about Aziraphale being upset due to a prolonged absence. It was pure panic.

Aziraphale knew Crowley and he was observant. He knew the demon was hiding something. Whatever scared and upset Crowley so strongly, it must be bad.

Making cocoa was a careful process. He could always miracle it up, instantly at the perfect temperature and ready. But preparing it the human way was soothing. He kept the mugs and quality ingredients close at hand so that he could always have some whenever the urge hit him. Aziraphale went through the familiar motions while his mind turned over everything, trying to figure out how to proceed.

He’d almost considered forcing Crowley to stay. The sensation that the demon needed help, needed protection, kept gnawing at Aziraphale. And it was far easier to help Crowley if he remained within the safety of the bookshop. And even if he knew that pushing wouldn’t help, Aziraphale wanted to shake him and beg Crowley to explain what was wrong. He couldn’t help him if Crowley didn’t explain what was wrong.

But Crowley asked to meet the next day. And that gave Aziraphale hope that they were moving past whatever foolishness was compelling his demon to hide the problem.

It made perfect sense to the angel. Crowley must intend to explain properly at their meeting tomorrow. Whatever was bothering Crowley, whatever was upsetting him so strongly and causing the uneasy sensation for Aziraphale, he must plan to reveal it then. Waiting overnight would give him a chance to work up the nerve and probably figure out how to describe the problem.

Aziraphale could give him that time. Crowley waited six thousand years patiently; the angel could give him a single day. He even suggested dinner to ensure that Crowley wouldn’t feel rushed or pressured. He could take his time with his explanation.

Aziraphale picked up his mug of cocoa, enjoying the warmth sinking into his fingers. Every part of the process was calming. From the preparation to the dark and rich flavor on his tongue, cocoa was a tremendous comfort for the angel. It made everything seem a little brighter and more hopeful.

Tomorrow he would meet Crowley at the duck pond and they would talk. Aziraphale would find out what was wrong and they would work out a solution together. And once they fixed whatever scared Crowley so badly, everything would go back to the way it was a couple weeks ago.

He held onto that hopeful thought. Something might be wrong and Crowley might be upset even while trying to hide it, but they would sort it out. Tomorrow they would figure everything out.

Aziraphale would find the source of that uneasy feeling of dread and the overwhelming urge to help Crowley from whatever was wrong. And then he would stop it. He would protect Crowley from whatever threat it might be.

* * *

Crowley stumbled towards his flat: tired, stressed, and struggling with guilt over all the lies that he told his angel. He had promised to see Aziraphale the next day. He told him that Crowley would meet him at the duck pond. He even agreed to a dinner later that evening. He did it with the best of intentions, but Crowley still felt sickened by those lies.

He was going to stand up his angel and it would break Aziraphale’s heart. It would break his trust, something that Crowley spent thousands of years earning and building. But it was the only way. The only place that Crowley hadn’t checked so far for a solution, the only place that might describe a non-lethal way of tearing Lucifer’s connection out of him, was the bookshop. The upper level of the bookshop where the angel kept old trinkets, artifacts, and dangerous books that he didn’t want humans to see. And the only way that Crowley could search those books would be if Aziraphale was somewhere else. Like St. James Park.

Crowley, leaning his forehead against the door to his flat, muttered, “‘Mm sorry, Aziraphale.”

He hated lying to his angel, but it was more important to keep him safe. And that meant getting rid of his connection to the devil _immediately_. When Crowley was the only one suffering, he could endure. He could handle it. But if Lucifer could control his body like that, then Aziraphale was in danger too. And Crowley couldn’t allow that.

“_Did you have a nice visit with the foolish and fragile principality?_”

“Shut up,” he hissed through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut.

“_Careful, darling. Last time you spoke to me like that it didn’t end very well for you, did it?_”

Crowley shivered at the memory of the night before, his physical body in absolute agony that never seemed to stop. But he didn’t react any further. He kept his eyes closed, hoping that Lucifer would get bored faster that way.

“_It didn’t have to be this way, you know. I had something far better in mind once. After the world ended and Heaven was defeated permanently, there would be no need for you to wander around tempting people anymore and I would have far more free time for more… **enjoyable** activities._”

“Another good reason to stop the apocalypse then,” he muttered tiredly.

Anger and possessiveness washed over Crowley thick enough to choke the demon. He forced himself not to react. He couldn’t give Lucifer that satisfaction. If he couldn’t guarantee control of his own corporeal body anymore, he could at least control how much he revealed to the devil.

“_But you, your little fool of a principality, and my son had to ruin that. You turned against me. You rejected me. But you’ve always been mine and always will. And for that disobedience, I have no choice except to give you a far harsher fate._”

“The inventor of ‘rebelling against your parent’ getting upset that his own kid rebelled? And that one of your fellow demons didn’t like following the rules? There’s some irony.”

“_You haven’t figured it out yet, have you? What I have planned for you? Since I am no longer distracted by the approach of Armageddon for the time being, I can devote as much time and effort as I wish on you. I’m not just going to break you in every way. There will not simply be pain to your physical form. Oh, there **will** be plenty of that, but I figured that someone like you would appreciate a bit more imagination in your punishment as well. I’m going to take away everything that matters to you, bit by bit. Every piece of the life that you built on Earth will be torn away from you. And once you have nothing left, I will bring you back to my side where I can give you far more personal and direct attention._”

“Not going to happen,” growled Crowley.

“_It already is._”

Pushing himself off of the door, tired of standing outside his flat arguing with the voice in his head, Crowley rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired in more ways than he wanted to describe. Tired and overwhelmed by the entire mess. He just wanted to crawl back inside and sleep until tomorrow.

His angel was alive. Alive and safe. For now. And tomorrow, after scouring Aziraphale’s books, Crowley would find a way to end all of this and keep his angel safe for good.

His tired thoughts stumbled as he pushed the door open and a strong sent hit him hard, leaving Crowley standing paralyzed in the doorway with his mouth slightly open. He took another deep breath. Smoke and ashes. He could taste it in the air. Strong and close.

When he found out that Lucifer didn’t force him to burn Aziraphale to death, Crowley had been too relieved to wonder what _was_ burned.

Crowley cautiously followed the trail, breathing in the scent. He could make out more than when it was only a few traces clinging to his clothes. It wasn’t the smoke from a greasy or oil-based fire. Nor could he detect the scent of burnt flesh or hair. The lingering smoke seemed to be purely…

…scorched plant matter.

He froze as he caught sight of shattered pots, scattered and trampled earth, and a small pile of cooling ash and soot. Everything in the room was destroyed. It was a crime scene, the sequence of events easy to follow with a quick look at the evidence. Leaves, stems, roots, and stalks had been ripped out of their homes before being piled together in the middle. A matchbook from the Ritz, one that he’d slipped into his pocket after his and Aziraphale’s first visit there together, had been tossed into a corner.

Burnt. All of them. The broadleaf lady palm. The Madagascar dragon tree. The rubber plant. Even the overly-dramatic and fussy coral bead plant. All of his houseplants had been torn from their pots and burnt like a mini-bonfire.

Crowley knelt next to the remnants. The fire was long gone, no longer even smoldering. A few twigs were still semi-intact, but burnt black and lifeless. They were all dead. And while he might be capable of coaxing life back into something recently deceased, like how Aziraphale did with a smothered dove, they were killed hours ago. As much as he cared about them, Crowley wasn’t crazy enough to challenge Death to a fight over his torched houseplants.

“_What a mess you’ve made of your collection of weeds. It took a while to get them to burn properly. Most plants don’t shake and tremble that much, do they? I’m almost sorry that you didn’t get to see it happen._”

Crowley’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His houseplants didn’t deserve that. They were living up to his expectations. They were only punished when they failed. They weren’t supposed to be destroyed. Not like this.

“_Don’t worry, my pretty thing. When it is time to deal with your little principality, I will ensure that you remain completely aware through the entire process. I want you to witness the look of betrayal in his eyes when you turn on him. When you betray him just as you betrayed me. And I want you to see every moment of his pain as he is torn apart slowly by your hands. I will ensure that you experience all of it when the time comes._”

“You won’t touch him. I won’t let you.”

“_Of course I won’t. **You** will. That’s the whole point._” Lucifer’s chuckle still set Crowley’s teeth on edge. “_And I’ll leave you with that image of what the future holds. Sweet dreams, darling._”

Crowley hissed sharply in frustration and anger, clutching the side of his head. He would have started clawing at the mark if he thought it would hurt Lucifer. One way or another, Crowley would keep him from harming Aziraphale. He would march himself straight into the closest church and dunk his entire body into their holy water before he would let anything happen to his angel.

Tomorrow. He would find a solution tomorrow. The angel must have a book with the answer. There must be a way to get rid of the mark from where Lucifer buried his way inside.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A little of the tension melted out of him, leaving Crowley tired once more. He ran a hand down his face, pulling his shades off. Then he reluctantly opened his eyes.

The depressing pile of burnt chunks of destroyed plants, ashes, and soot looked exactly as it did before. Dark smudges surrounded the scene of the crime, almost like blood stains. Crowley silently touched the cold ash. His fingers were quickly coated in gray and black. His beautiful and lush garden had been reduced to _this_.

Broken. Torn apart. Seared and scorched. Destroyed.

Crowley’s hand moved through the ash, bumping into the broken fragments. He didn’t even know what he was searching for until he felt a weak shiver. Then both hands were gently digging out the shriveled, blackened, and tiny thing somehow clinging to life. He couldn’t immediately recognize which one it was, his survivor too damaged from the fire. But Crowley carefully cradled it close to his chest and started pouring his power through the shuddering plant.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, gently healing and strengthening the fragile plant. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t deserve this. None of you did.”

As his demonic miracle slowly coaxed leaves to re-sprout, the distinctive colors told him that the lucky survivor was his rattlesnake plant. He hadn’t expected that, but it was clearly stronger and tougher than he would have ever guessed. But it wouldn’t stop trembling. The poor houseplant was completely traumatized and terrified by what happened.

Crowley couldn’t blame it for being afraid and confused. It couldn’t possibly understand what happened. It tried to be an obedient and loyal plant, meeting all the expectations and following the rules. It tried to do the right thing and, as far as it could tell, it was succeeding. And yet it was suddenly ripped from the safety of its home and cast down into fire, burning and suffering without truly understanding why.

Just… hurt, scared, confused, and trying to figure out what it did wrong.

“You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be hurt. It shouldn’t have happened to you. You did nothing wrong.”

A finger snap and one of the broken pots suddenly found itself intact once again. Crowley carefully settled the restored roots back in the rich soil. He took his time, not wanting to squash or damage the root system after putting in the effort to heal it. But the frightened shivering didn’t stop or lessen. That type of reaction from his houseplants normally didn’t bother him, but right now he hated how scared it seemed. Worse than normal. Before it was a controlled dread of failure; now it was stronger and uncertain terror.

“You did nothing wrong. You didn’t deserve to be hurt like this. You were just at the mercy of someone far more powerful than you that took advantage of that weakness. You were innocent and trusting. And that trust was betrayed. That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

Crowley set the pot on his lap and gently ran his hand along the leaves. If asked, he would claim that he was checking that he didn’t miss anything with his healing. And if someone were to ask about the wetness around his eyes, Crowley would claim it was just the smoke making them burn.

Lying was easier when he wasn’t addressing his angel.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I wasn’t the one who hurt you. I’m just the one that he used to do it. That doesn’t make it any better though.” He traced his fingers along the edges of one of the smaller leaves, letting his power coil protectively through the rattlesnake plant. “You shouldn’t have been hurt, but he did it because you are mine and he wanted to punish me. You’re mine and I couldn’t even keep you safe.”

He couldn’t protect his houseplants from Lucifer’s wrath and vindictiveness. He couldn’t protect _himself_. Crowley was next to useless against Lucifer. He would be equally useless when the devil turned his attention on Aziraphale.

Crowley hugged the pot closer. The rattle snake plant was beginning to settle down finally. But he found himself brushing away wetness from his face and struggling to keep still. Crowley didn’t want to start shaking like a traumatized houseplant. He was too tired of being scared. He was tired of the entire mess.

Tired and at the end of his rope.

“I won’t let him hurt you again,” he lied, knowing that he had no possible way of keeping that promise. “I’m sorry. You’ve exceeded all my expectations and deserve so much better. And I’m so sorry.”

He slowly climbed to his feet, cradling the houseplant carefully. A few thoughts managed to work past the general exhaustion, hurt, frustration, and fear. Lucifer used _matches_. There was no reason to fumble around the human way to burn the houseplants. Unless he had no choice. Lucifer might be able to control and manipulate Crowley’s corporeal body however he wanted, but couldn’t apparently force him to perform demonic miracles. Of course, he couldn’t guarantee any assumptions about the extent of Lucifer’s reach, but it seemed reasonable. And if it was true, it would be comforting to know that Satan couldn’t make him summon hellfire to burn Aziraphale.

It still wasn’t something that he wanted to gamble his angel’s life on.

Tomorrow. It would all be over tomorrow. Crowley clung fiercely to that thought. One way or another, it would be over soon.

* * *

The bookshop felt different without Aziraphale in it. Emptier. It still felt a little like him. After occupying the same building for so many years, traces of the angel clung to the place. His power had sunk into the very foundation and his comforting scent wrapped around Crowley like a blanket. Probably a tartan blanket, if he wanted to continue the metaphor. But no matter how much if felt like his angel, Aziraphale wasn’t there and Crowley could feel the difference.

His angel was safe and far away. Aziraphale was at St. James Park, sitting on their bench and probably feeding the ducks frozen vegetables while quietly apologizing for decades of unhealthy bread. He was there waiting for Crowley, not knowing that the demon would never come.

The upper level of the bookshop was a bit of a rat’s nest. One of the advantages of not being accessible to the location’s limited customers. The books hidden up there were neat and organized by the angel’s rather eccentric system, but everything else was jumbled together at random. Old furniture that Aziraphale didn’t use and yet couldn’t bear to part with, his treasured collection of snuffboxes that were in need of another all-day polishing session, several bottles of wine that he’d probably forgotten about owning, trunks filled with both powerful artifacts and clothes at least two hundred years out of date, artwork from various cultures that most museums would murder to get their hands on, random knickknacks crammed on old tables and desks, and what appeared to be a rather elaborate grandfather clock were all tucked between his shelves of more dangerous books.

Humans didn’t always get things right, especially when it came to things far outside their worldview. But sometimes they stumbled onto something accurate. Usually on accident. And while Crowley enjoyed humans figuring out new things and all the delightful ideas their curiosity and imagination could devise with those discoveries, there were some things that both he and Aziraphale thought humans shouldn’t be dabbling in for everyone’s safety. Accurate descriptions on performing summonings, ways to trap angels or demons, ways to seriously harm or destroy them, and the exact limits of their abilities fell into that category. And while Aziraphale would never destroy a book, he had no problem stashing them away like a literary squirrel.

Crowley had been reading through those books for several hours, marking several passages with slips of paper. Any paragraph that might be even slightly relevant, he saved it. He kept looking though. Because all the information that he was finding was… discouraging.

Everything seemed to just be rephrasing the same idea. The same solution to remove the influence of something demonic. The same impossible solution that Crowley couldn’t use.

“_Still wasting your time? It’s starting to get rather boring watching you desperately searching for a loophole._”

Eyes squeezing shut and sunglasses dangling from his fingers, Crowley slid the latest tome on top of the nearest bookshelf. Then he folded his arms on the shelf and buried his face in them. He was out of time and options. Aziraphale’s books had been his last hope. It was his last chance and there was _nothing_.

It was over. All fight melted out of him. He couldn’t even cling to hope and denial any longer.

“_You keep resisting, but you’re mine. I already told you. You’ll never escape, no matter how many of the angel’s books you search._” The feeling of vicious glee from Lucifer sent a chill down Crowley’s spine, almost as if the devil ran an incorporeal hand down his back. “_You can’t escape your fate, my pretty thing. You can’t free yourself and you can’t avoid the consequences of your betrayal. At first, watching your denial was amusing. But now I just want your spirit to shatter. I want to watch you break._”

The whisper in Crowley’s ear felt like poison dripping into his essence, vile and sickening. He was just so tired. Tired of being scared, frustrated, revolted, and overwhelmed. Maybe it would have been easier to let them drag him to that bathtub of holy water.

But then there would have been no one to keep Aziraphale safe from Heaven.

“_That bright little spark that you managed to hold onto? I liked it. Always have. I enjoyed burying myself in it, in **you**. But now I want to see it extinguish. I want to be the one to make it happen._”

Crowley didn’t raise his head and didn’t open his eyes. But his fingernails began digging into the wood of the bookshelf and his breathing began to hitch. Why was he letting that happen? He didn’t even need to breathe. But now he couldn’t seem to get it under control and his heart seemed determined to beat its way out of his ribcage. And Crowley couldn’t afford to discorporate from a stupid panic attack.

“_I could try to speed things up. Get to the good part faster. But there are benefits to taking my time too. How about this, darling… Maybe if you beg, I’ll wait to snuff out that last little sliver of light until after I can enjoy you **properly** again._”

“Crowley?”

Eyes flying open as he twisted around, Crowley stiffened as he spotted Aziraphale standing behind him with a slight frown. Panic and horror seized him as the demon desperately tried to figure out how to get away from Aziraphale, how to keep his angel safe. But then there was the uncomfortable sensation of his body reacting against his desires, his posture straightening and his expression relaxing. Within seconds of seeing Aziraphale, all control was stolen away and Crowley was trapped as a mute prisoner within his own corporeal body.

“_Well, look at that._”

Lucifer’s predatory whisper terrified him on an entirely new level. Crowley desperately begged for his angel to run, but not a sound could escape. The devil was the one pulling the strings of his new puppet.

“_What a lovely interruption. Your precious principality. Too trusting and too foolish. I can’t remember how long it has been since I tortured an angel._”


	6. Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is terrified for Aziraphale after the end of that last chapter. And worried for Crowley, but that’s just in general by this point. I hope that the cliffhanger wasn’t too evil.

The first clue that something was truly and seriously wrong was when Crowley didn’t arrive at St. James Park. He _always_ showed up when they agreed to meet. Aziraphale even lingered a few hours, fidgeting anxiously when he ran out of food for the ducks, hoping that he made a mistake with the time or Crowley was running late. Not that Crowley would be late, even if he might mention the concept of being fashionably late. But it was a better reason than thinking that he’d been stood up.

Or that Crowley was in trouble.

The second clue was parked in front of his bookshop. Aziraphale was yanked out of his worried and upset thoughts by the sight of a familiar black Bentley. And as he drew near, he heard one of the familiar “bebop” songs that it always played. But the song kept skipping.

“Beelzebub’s got a devil set aside for me— got a devil set aside— a devil set aside for me— got a devil—”

Full-volume and never stopping, the same lyrics kept repeating. And Aziraphale knew enough about Crowley’s car to know that it couldn’t be a coincidence. It was enough to make the angel cautious.

Cautious enough to silence the bell for his front door with a small miracle. Cautious enough not to call out to Crowley as he quietly searched the bookshop.

The third clue was when he found Crowley slumped against one of the shelves on the upper level. He shouldn’t be up there in the first place, but the rest of his surroundings added to the strangeness. There were several books scattered around him with slips of paper serving as makeshift bookmarks, evidence of frantic and fast research. And the titles hinted at some rather unusual, but serious subjects. Aziraphale couldn’t think of a single good reason for Crowley’s sudden interest in these particular books.

Worry and anxiety gnawed at the angel. He didn’t like any part of this.

Frowning, Aziraphale called, “Crowley?”

The fourth clue only lasted a split second. At the sound of the angel’s voice, Crowley spun around with a look of fear, panic, and desperation on his face. But only for a moment. Brief enough that it would have been easy to miss. Then the expression was gone, replaced unnaturally fast by a calm, relaxed, and smug grin. His body straightened and his face seemed open and welcoming. As if he didn’t have a single care in the world.

And it wasn’t _Crowley_.

Aziraphale knew the demon better than anyone. He knew him for thousands of years and in a variety of scenarios. And, after looking in a mirror after they swapped bodies, he knew what it looked like when there was someone else hidden behind that familiar face. While the moment of panic seemed real, the calmness belonged to someone else.

It wasn’t Crowley staring back at him, sunglasses dangling from his hand and exposed eyes completely golden. It was someone else. Someone who didn’t know how to shrink the color down to just the irises. Aziraphale knew from experience that it wasn’t easy to do. This new entity didn’t have the skill.

“Hey, Zira,” they greeted, clearly pretending to be Crowley. “I let myself in. Hope you don’t mind.”

The inflections were close and the voice belonged to Crowley’s corporeal body, using the same mouth and vocal chords. Maybe someone who didn’t know him well might fall for the impersonation. But it wasn’t him. _Zira_. Crowley only used his full name or “angel.” He would never call Aziraphale by that nickname.

Aziraphale tilted his head and looked down, as if uncomfortable and trying to figure out how to phrase whatever he wanted to say. But, doing his best to avoid Not-Crowley noticing where his attention was, he subtly Looked. He didn’t like truly Seeing; he tended to See too much if he wasn’t careful and would end up with the angelic equivalent of a migraine. But Aziraphale knew that he needed to know what he was dealing with.

After so long in the same corporeal bodies, their true forms tended to reflect their appearance to an extent. If they lost their physical bodies too long, Aziraphale had no doubts that they would settle back into their original shapes, but for now Crowley should look very similar even under Aziraphale’s more angelic senses.

And it did look like Crowley. But not the relaxed and casual version in front of him. His face was twisted in fear, panic, and horror. He seemed to be desperately begging, his mouth moving constantly, but not a sound emerged. And there was a red glow around him, something that sickened Aziraphale the longer he peered at it. Everything in the angel shrieked that whatever it was, it wasn’t supposed to be there. The glow also seemed strongest on the side of Crowley’s head, the familiar tattoo so bright that it almost seemed to burn.

He closed off those senses, returning his sight to that of his human corporation as he raised his head back up. While he might not know all the details, Aziraphale knew that there was something in there with Crowley and pretending rather poorly. It wasn’t a straightforward replacement because Crowley was still in there. The acting attempt would almost be laughable. But the glimpse he had of his demon, scared to death and unable to be heard, destroyed any humor of the situation and chilled the angel to his core.

If this mystery entity wanted to test their acting skills, Aziraphale could play along. At least until he could work out a way to help.

“You told me that you would meet me at the duck pond,” he said, letting some hurt and anxiety color his words and hide his knowledge. “Or did I misunderstand our plans? I suppose that’s possible. Or did something happen with you? Is everything all right, Crowley?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Guess I just got a little mixed up,” said Not-Crowley. “Hope you don’t mind too much.”

He stepped away from the bookshelf and walked towards Aziraphale, closing the distance. The normal swaying motion to Crowley’s saunter was absent. It was a more traditional gait and completely wrong.

And then he came to a stop on Aziraphale’s right side. That wasn’t right either. Crowley would always circle or keep on Aziraphale’s left side. Maybe it was instinctive or maybe it was a conscious decision, but the position left Crowley guarding his vulnerable side while leaving Aziraphale’s sword arm free to move.

“I’m just relieved that nothing’s wrong. I was worried,” said Aziraphale, trying to smile. “Well, if we can’t go feed the ducks today, perhaps we could head downstairs? I think you might be able to tempt me into breaking out a bottle or two.”

Not-Crowley’s grin sent a shiver through the angel’s essence. The smile mostly seemed right, but there was a slight edge to it. Aziraphale would have missed it if he wasn’t already suspicious.

“Sounds like fun, Zira,” he said, turning back and weaving through the angel’s belongings towards the stairs. “I’d love to spend the rest of the evening with you.”

There was something uncomfortable about his tone that transformed the innocent words into something dangerous. Something predatory. Something that wasn’t Crowley, but was trying to pretend only long enough to get close to the angel. And it couldn’t be for any good reason.

Aziraphale trailed after him, knowing exactly what Not-Crowley must be thinking. Poor, innocent, soft, and oblivious angel. Not a single clue. Completely helpless without his demon watching over him. Unaware of the entity replacing Crowley. A perfect victim that wouldn’t recognize the danger until it was too late. Not-Crowley was probably considering all the possible ways to use that ignorance to their advantage; there must be some ultimate form of betrayal that they would want to perform with Crowley’s face.

Those diabolical plans likely didn’t take into account Aziraphale _slamming_ one of his misprint bibles against the back of the demon’s head. And whether it was the force of the blow or the inherent holiness of the book, Not-Crowley dropped like a stone.

The unconscious figure sprawled across the floor, an antique letter-opener _clattering_ across the ground. Aziraphale blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even notice when they picked it up. He didn’t want to imagine what Not-Crowley would have done with it, but he suspected that he’d narrowly avoided being stabbed. Regardless, Aziraphale was unharmed and now needed to deal with the confusing issue of whatever was happening with Crowley.

“Let’s see if I can sort something out before you wake up,” said Aziraphale, kneeling next to the unconscious figure. “I suspect it would be dangerous not to keep you contained.”

* * *

Crowley gradually began stirring, a lingering holiness-induced headache pounding through his skull. Ow. He tried curling into a tighter ball on the hard ground. But after a moment, Crowley realized that he had control of his corporeal form again. And that thought forced him to remember.

The bookshop. Aziraphale. Lucifer taking control. Picking up the letter-opener.

“Aziraphale,” he mumbled, trying to push himself upright. Fears of what he might have done, that he might have hurt his angel and forgotten, flickered through his mind. “_Aziraphale._”

“Crowley?”

He forced his eyes open. All around him was glowing white lines on the floor. A familiar circle in the center of the bookshop, normally hidden beneath a rug. The lines had been altered, adjusting the purpose from a method of communicating with heavenly forces into containing and dampening demonic ones. But even with the changes, he still recognized it. Crowley even recognized the candles that lined the edges, even if it made him anxious to see fire back in the bookshop.

None of it would stop a demon from using his powers or breaking out eventually, but it would at least slow him down. It would hold him temporarily. At least it would, depending on how much he fought it. But this was a fast and messy alteration to an existing circle. Anything more effective would probably take longer to prepare.

Crowley twisted around and found Aziraphale standing behind him. His angel. Safe. Aziraphale searched his face briefly before relaxing.

“There you are,” he said quietly. “How do you feel, Crowley?”

Rubbing the back of his head, he said, “Bit of a headache, but not too bad.”

“Yes, well, that might be my fault,” he said, blushing slightly. “I’m afraid that I might have hit you harder than I intended.”

“It’s fine. Probably for the best.” Crowley drew his knees close to his chest, regretting the absence of his sunglasses. “There’s… There’s a problem, Aziraphale. With me.”

“Is that why you were avoiding me?” he asked gently.

He nodded reluctantly. No more hiding. Not anymore. He needed to confess. Crowley didn’t honestly want to explain any of it; every part of him hated the idea. But keeping all of this secret could have gotten Aziraphale hurt. Crowley couldn’t risk it.

“Someone was controlling you before.” Aziraphale’s words were a statement, not a question. “I’d almost call it a possession, but I don’t think it’s possible to possess a demon like you would a human.”

Crowley’s laugh came out a little broken and desperate. He slowly climbed to his feet, keeping away from the edges of the circle. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his angel as he wrapped his arms around his body. Crowley hated all of this. He was tired, frustrated, and scared from the stress of it all. He just wanted it to stop.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said shakily. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know that he… that he was still…”

Hidden deeper in the bookshop, the record player started playing. A cheerful classical tune drifted through the air. It made Crowley shiver; the music starting on its own was _not_ a good sign.

“Well, the little principality turned out to be a bit cleverer than I expected,” said a voice from the record player, making Crowley flinch sharply. It felt strange to be contacted that way again instead of as a horrible whisper in his ear. “I suppose that I should have seen that coming. After all, you were clever enough to spot the same delightful traits that I did in him. So _nice_ and _bright_. And you were smart and manipulative enough to keep my pretty thing close enough to properly enjoy. I’m starting to suspect that you are the one responsible for the trick that the two of you pulled off to survive the executions. No wonder he follows you around so obediently, principality. Smart, unflinching in the face of a power greater than your own, a bit rebellious? You probably reminded him of _me_.”

Crowley snarled at the implications that Aziraphale had _anything_ in common with the devil, anger briefly outweighing his cold terror. Aziraphale turned and glared in the direction of the record player. His straight posture stiffened further as the angel drew himself up and did his best to give off a more combative impression.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” he said, “but—”

“Satan,” interrupted Crowley.

Freezing abruptly and looking paler than before, Aziraphale asked, “What?”

“That’s him. Satan. Lucifer. The devil.” Crowley shrugged, trying to act casual even as his heart pounded uselessly in his chest. “Sounds different when he isn’t bursting out of the ground, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, good heaven,” he whispered.

Reaching up to drag his hand through his hair only to end up digging his nails into the dark mark on the side of his head, Crowley muttered, “They’ve got nothing to with any of this.”

“Not quite as eager to protect your precious prize now that you know who you are addressing, are you?” remarked Lucifer, his voice easily melding with the music. “At least you’re smart enough to know when you’re outclassed, little principality.”

His expression hardening, Aziraphale said, “Quite the contrary. I do not care who I am addressing. Crowley no longer belongs to Hell. Nor I to Heaven. We have cut ties with our former sides. You _will_ leave him alone.”

Something warm washed over Crowley at the angel’s words. It felt soothing and comforting. Then that warmth frosted over at Lucifer’s dark laugh.

“You think the bright thing is yours? That you managed to wrestle one little demon away from me. Never. He is _mine_. Forever. In _every_ way.”

Trying to ignore the possessive sensation wrapping around his essence, Crowley hissed, “I’m not yours. And I want nothing to do with you.”

“You’ll always be mine, darling. You can’t escape that. And your continued insistence otherwise grows tiresome. You’ve already seen how much control I have over you. And you _know_ why I do.”

“Ssshut up,” he hissed sharply.

“You remember, my pretty thing. I know that you do. But did you ever tell the little principality? Does he know?”

Hands slamming against the power humming through the circle, Crowley snarled, “Ssshut up!”

“That’s enough of that,” said Aziraphale firmly.

With a familiar gesture, the angel snapped his fingers and the music cut off suddenly. Crowley didn’t know where Aziraphale sent the record player, but it was gone and Lucifer’s current method of communication went with it. Without a radio or a television in the bookshop, there was a limit to Hell’s ability to contact them. The devil could whisper in Crowley’s ear all that he wanted, but Lucifer couldn’t tell Aziraphale anything.

Crowley grinned, letting some of the tension melt out of his body. It still wasn’t _great_, but at least Satan wasn’t trying to spill secrets anymore. Crowley could work through this conversation at his own pace and in his own words. He didn’t want to imagine what Lucifer planned to say to Aziraphale.

Then something cold and unpleasant seemed to sink into his corporeal form. It threaded through him. Crowley felt the cruel pleasure and amusement from the devil soaking into his essence. His limbs refused to respond. But he left Crowley the tiniest amount of control for his face. Lucifer allowed his emotions and expressions to show.

“It is rude to interrupt, little principality,” mocked Lucifer’s with Crowley’s mouth.

* * *

Aziraphale could only watch in shock and fury as Lucifer took control of Crowley’s body again. His posture stiffened and his limbs locked into place at his sides. But this time he didn’t even pretend. Lucifer allowed the demon’s fear to shine through even as he stole Crowley’s voice.

“Let him go,” said Aziraphale sharply.

He didn’t care that it was the devil. He didn’t care how powerful or terrifying that Lucifer might be. Right now, all that he cared about was how horrified and scared Crowley looked, not even trying to hide it. The look on the demon’s face ignited a furious and protective instinct. Aziraphale needed to make the devil stop.

“Why should I let him go? He’s _mine_. Not yours, little principality. Never yours.”

Aziraphale hated hearing Crowley’s voice speaking Satan’s words. They were wrong. They didn’t belong to his demon. Crowley shook his head slowly, his eyes wide. That was all the control that he was apparently allowed.

“I said, let Crowley go. Or I will find a way to _make_ you.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” The condescending tone made Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. “You can’t have him. He was never yours to begin with. He’s mine. From the moment that I found the bright and pretty thing, he was _mine_. Did he tell you about what happened when he Fell? I found him, filled with so much grief and heartache. Empty of Her love and grace. Broken, but with such a lovely spark that survived despite everything. You’ve seen that bright spark, haven’t you? That’s probably what drew you towards him in the first place.”

Crowley was shaking, straining against Lucifer’s hold. And the only reason that he could manage even that much resistance was because the devil _wanted_ Aziraphale to see him struggle. After all, there had been no outward sign of Crowley fighting against his power before. He wanted the angel to see Crowley’s desperation and for the demon to have hope of breaking free.

Lucifer was toying with them. Both of them.

At least the circle was keeping the devil contained for the moment. He wasn’t trying to escape and attack Aziraphale yet.

“Do you know why I can do this, little principality? Do you know what let’s me reach my pretty bright thing even from Hell? I can’t do this with most of my demons.”

Aziraphale wanted to demand answers. How could he help free Crowley and keep this from happening again if he didn’t know what caused it in the first place? But Crowley’s eyes… Too scared, too horrified, too desperate, and too vulnerable. He was practically begging Aziraphale with his eyes. Whatever Lucifer wanted to share, Crowley wanted it to remain secret. He clearly wanted the devil to stop talking more than anything else in the world.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Aziraphale.

“It does. Quite a bit. You see, I have a rather strong foothold in my darling. My influence runs very deep. More than skin deep, which he’s already figured out the hard way.” The dark chuckle would have already been unnerving, but the furious tears on Crowley’s face only made it worse. “You believe that you know him fairly well, little principality, but you do not. Not like how I _Know_ him.”

Something about the way Lucifer said the word gave it far more meaning. A different and unnerving meaning. And Aziraphale knew that Lucifer was trying to imply something on purpose, probably to mess with his head. But the way that Crowley’s expression shifted, like he’d been gutted, kept Aziraphale from dismissing it out of hand. And even the possibility made the angel’s protective anger burn hotter.

How dare he? How _dare_ he?

“He’s always been such a bright, pretty thing. And so empty when he Fell. It seemed like a mistake to ignore him. It would have been a waste and too cruel for words, leaving him hollow and alone. Who wouldn’t enjoy the shining glimmer? Well, apparently not _you_, little principality. Too innocent and oblivious? Perhaps too afraid of corruption from someone Fallen? Or too disgusted? What made you hold back?”

Aziraphale couldn’t find his voice, anger on the demon’s behalf locking up his throat. He couldn’t respond to any of it. Neither Lucifer’s words nor Crowley’s increasingly furious and horrified expression. The angel wanted to do something to make this train wreck of a conversation stop. _Anything_. But the devil apparently took the silence as encouragement.

“Unlike you, I have never been afraid to go after what I enjoy. And I _did_ enjoy him. Every second of it. I remember feeling him wiggling and crawling under me. There wasn’t a single part of him that I left untouched. And you can’t imagine how _nice_ it felt, burying myself deep into his essence. I reached into the deepest parts of him, claiming what was mine and leaving a small portion of my power imbedded in him. While She left him hollowed out and empty, I did not. I did not abandon or cast him out. Unlike Her, I made certain that he knew that he was wanted. I honestly don’t know why you would choose to miss out, little principality. You can’t imagine the amount of pleasure that he gave me. My bright and pre—”

Demonic power, fueled by almost suffocating amounts of fury and loathing, practically exploded out and Aziraphale found himself suddenly stumbling in sand. Then he noticed that his wings had manifested and everything was unnaturally silent, telling him that he was standing specifically in the Sands of Time. And that meant that someone was messing with the flow of time on a large scale, which could only be one person.

Crowley collapsed to his hands and knees in the sand, gasping in clear exhaustion and smothered sobs. Aziraphale ran across the sliding surface and knelt in front of the demon. He didn’t know if Crowley’s exhaustion was primarly from struggling against Lucifer, stopping time to this extent once again, using his powers within the circle, or the sheer combination of the three. But that didn’t really matter. The important thing was that Aziraphale didn’t see a trace of Lucifer in his horrified and furious expression.

“Crowley?” he called gently, his wings moving slightly forward to protectively shield the demon from view.

It took a moment for the demon’s breathing to even out. And he didn’t exactly calm down. But he eventually managed to speak.

“I don’t… He can’t reach me here. Not with time stopped.” Crowley shook his head, shivering slightly as he drew his own wings close. “At least, I’m pretty sure. But I can’t stay here forever. Not even sure how I managed it without him stopping me.”

“At least we have a moment of privacy then,” he said, his voice soft. “I think we’ve both had enough of him for now.”

Staring at the sand and refusing to raise his head, Crowley said, “I didn’t… What he was talking about before? I didn’t… _agree_ to it. He found me right after the Fall. That was true. None of us were in great shape. Wasn’t exactly a comfortable landing.” His fingers tightened, digging into the sand before ending up as clenched fists. “But he was still the strongest of us. He recovered first. Probably because he Fell first. But he was strong and angry and… somehow I caught his attention. He didn’t ask and didn’t care about my opinion on the matter. He didn’t accept ‘no’ as an answer. I _never_ agreed to any of it.” Crowley raised his head slightly, giving Aziraphale a glimpse of the desperate, exhausted, and scared look in his golden eyes. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation. Trying to shove down the burning anger, because getting himself killed trying to eviscerate the devil wouldn’t help anyone, Aziraphale asked, “And that’s how he’s doing…?”

Crowley nodded slightly and gestured at the side of his head. Towards his tattoo. Aziraphale tried to Look for the earlier reddish glow on his true form, but he didn’t See anything unusual. Without Lucifer actively using that connection, there were no obvious signs. Which probably explained why it went unnoticed for several millennia.

“Can I take a closer look and see how bad it is?” asked Aziraphale. “It almost seems camouflaged with your own essence. I might have to use other means to tell the difference.”

“Go ahead, Angel,” he said, closing his eyes.

Aziraphale carefully placed a hand on his shoulder before reaching out in a completely different way. Sometimes a closer examination required touch rather than Looking. He brushed against the edges of Crowley’s essence. Aziraphale felt the demon flinch at the feather-light contact, but he didn’t pull away. It wasn’t too different from how it felt when they switched appearances before; recent events were probably to blame for the different reaction. The angel tried to be careful and stay on the surface with his investigation. It took a few moments to find what he was searching for; a casual peek wouldn’t have noticed anything at all. But the instant that Aziraphale brushed against the currently-dormant piece of Lucifer’s power and recognized it as different than Crowley’s essence, it instantly gave him the full picture.

He could sense it now. The differences reminded Aziraphale of two pieces of cloth of identical shades, but two types of fabric. And the foreign presence infuriated Aziraphale on a fundamental level. It made him want to take back up his flaming sword. He could feel the full extent of the invader’s reach. Even keeping on the surface, Aziraphale could now make out the entire infection. Buried deep into Crowley’s core and threaded through every part of his essence like a vast root system. It was everywhere, silent and waiting for Lucifer to use the connection.

As Aziraphale pulled away slowly, Crowley opened his eyes and asked, “That bad, huh?”

“We’ll figure something out. There must be a way to fix this,” he said evenly.

“I’ve been looking, Aziraphale. Getting rid of something demonic from a demon isn’t exactly easy. Even your books only had one way to pry the devil’s influence out of someone.”

Aziraphale felt hope blossom at Crowley’s statement that there was a way to help. Maybe it would be difficult or time-consuming but a method existed. And Aziraphale would do whatever it might take to make it work.

He felt that spark of hope, but Crowley’s voice didn’t share it. He sounded exhausted, frustrated, and resigned. And his yellow eyes seemed dull, refusing to look at the angel.

“Tell me, my dear. How do we force him out?”

Staring firmly at the sand, Crowley said, “The only way to remove something demonic like his influence from someone… is with something holy. Like burning it out with…”

“Holy water,” whispered Aziraphale, feeling like all the breath was driven from his body as he nearly choked on the words.

Dread and horror washed over the angel. Different than the horror that he felt when he realized that the devil was the one controlling Crowley. Different than when he realized exactly what Lucifer did to forge that connection. It was horror and panic that reminded him of when the demon handed over a slip of paper, asking for the one thing that he was terrified of Crowley possessing. It was horror born from the fear of loss.

“Crowley, that’s… There _has_ to be something else. That won’t solve anything. It won’t just target him. It’ll… it’ll…”

“I know. Holy burns through demonic. Like acid through rice paper,” he said dully. “I’ve been looking for weeks. That’s it. That’s the only way to stop him.”

Human-shaped bodies came with human instincts and human reactions. And most of the time, it was more convenient to let those bodies run on autopilot with certain things rather than micromanaging every detail. Aziraphale’s human-shaped corporeal form reacted instinctively to the demon’s resigned statement. He couldn’t stop it. Aziraphale’s chest hurt from a tight pressure, his breathing hitched, his throat seemed to squeeze shut, and his eyes burned with unshed tears.

He knew what holy water did to demons. He’d seen it during the failed executions; an ordinary demon murdered for being in the wrong place and too weak to resist.

How often was that enough to doom them? Being in the wrong place when someone stronger was around? Was that simply how it always was in Hell? That’s what apparently happened thousands of years ago. A moment of vulnerability and Lucifer turned an act meant to be shared out of love and trust into a vicious mockery of the act. And the damage of that day was still hurting Crowley.

And the only way to remove that… the only way…

“No,” he whispered. “Please, no. Crowley, you _can’t_. You can’t ask me to do that. It would destroy you. You can’t ask me to help you do something that dangerous. I can’t do that. You can’t ask me to hurt you like that.”

“I know, Aziraphale.” Crowley raised his head, giving him a small and sad smile. “I’m not asking you to. It wouldn’t be fair to put you through that.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

“When time starts again,” he said slowly, “I’ll be in that circle again. That should at least slow him down. It’ll buy us some time.”

“To do what?”

“For you to run. That’s what I need you to do, Aziraphale. Just… run. To another country. To another planet. Go all the way to Alpha Centauri, if that’s what it takes. Just stay away from me. If I can find you, Lucifer will make me torture and destroy you. And I can’t… I can’t… But as long as you’re safe, then it’ll be fine. Maybe if you stay away long enough, he’ll get distracted. He won’t look for you forever.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Aziraphale asked, “And you? How will any of this free you from him?”

“It won’t.”

Aziraphale stared in silent horror as Crowley’s expression went intentionally empty. He couldn’t believe what the demon was suggesting. Abandoning Crowley to protect himself? Leave him to the devil’s lack of mercy? Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought. Lucifer could make him do anything in the angel’s absence. He could force Crowley back to Hell and then he could…

He shook his head violently, eyes clenched tight. Aziraphale couldn’t let that happen to him. He was supposed to keep Crowley safe. He loved his demon too much to leave him to that fate.

But what was the alternative? Holy water would burn Crowley just as thoroughly as it would Lucifer’s taint. And while his flaming sword would have offered a little more control of the damage in comparison, it was still too large and bulky for the delicate task of carving that dark power out of the demon’s essence. Not to mention that the weapon was gone. Any way to combat the problem would threaten Crowley’s existence.

One way or another, Aziraphale was going to lose him.

Choking back sobs, forcing them down before they could spill out and cause him to break, Aziraphale briefly lost track of where they were. He was too trapped in his own thoughts, sinking into a pit of misery and the feeling of helplessness. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t see any other chances and there wasn’t enough time to search for them. And he was so wrapped up in his own head that at an unexpected touch to his hand, Aziraphale flinched back and his eyes flew open.

He saw Crowley pull back with a complicated expression on his face. It only took a moment to realize what he’d been trying to do. He’d been trying to comfort Aziraphale. That sent guilt churning deep inside the angel. Even now, Crowley was trying to protect him. To help him and comfort him. And that wasn’t fair. Not when the demon was the one on the verge of an unspeakable and horrible fate. Aziraphale didn’t deserve his kindness and comfort; the angel wasn’t the one who was about to end up in Lucifer’s possession again.

“You can’t… you can’t just let him… _have_ you again. You can’t give up like that,” said Aziraphale shakily.

Starting to look a little strained, Crowley said, “Not… really much choice. I can’t keep us here much longer. Not as easy as it looks, stopping time this much.”

“I can’t let him… I can’t leave you behind,” he said. “I can’t let him hurt you again. Don’t ask me to just stand aside and let this happen.”

“Angel, _please_. I don’t want him to… I want him _gone_. But I can survive anything he tries as long as I know you’re safe. He can do whatever he wants, but I can’t… I can’t…” He shuddered, though Aziraphale didn’t know if it was from the exhaustion of keeping them outside of time for so long or from the thought of what Satan would do once Crowley was in his possession again. “The only thing I want more than every shred of him _out of me_ is… not to kill you. Because he will. He’ll make me kill you. But first, he’ll make me torture you. And I’ll have to see, hear, and feel every minute of it and that’s the one thing that I _can’t_…” His voice was shaking as much as the rest of him now, any brave front crumbling under exhaustion, fear, and dread. “I’d rather die than let that happen.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

A broken and rueful chuckle slipped out. Crowley bowed his head and shook it slowly.

“I won’t. He won’t let me. That would be too _kind_.” Taking a shaking breath, he continued, “Time’s about to start up again. Promise me, Aziraphale. Promise me that you’ll run. Promise that you’ll run and you won’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Aziraphale stared at him silently, his emotions a tangled and churning mess that seemed determined to shatter the angel into a thousand painful pieces. Thoughts and impossible plans flashed through his mind, trying to find another possibility. He desperately searched his memories of all the books that he could recall and all the snippets of information that he’d gleamed over the millennia. There had to be a way to save Crowley.

Then calm resignation settled over him. The decision was made. There was no other choice that he could have picked. Aziraphale hated it, but… it was the kindest option that he could make for his demon.

He loved Crowley too much to do anything else.

Breathing out slowly, he said, “Once I start, I promise that I won’t stop.”

Crowley gave him a small and grateful smile. It broke Aziraphale’s heart. Then the Sands of Time were gone and he was kneeling right outside the circle, the demon trapped inside once again. For a couple of seconds, it was still Crowley in control and he stared unwaveringly at Aziraphale. As if trying to memorize his face one last time. Then something in his expression changed and the angel knew that Satan was reclaiming the corporeal body for his own use.

Aziraphale didn’t give him a chance to start monologuing again. With a quick gesture, he activated one of the symbols of the circle that he’d managed to add earlier. A rather small and innocent addition. But once activated, Crowley’s body slumped back into unconsciousness.

As soon as he was certain that the demon was asleep, Aziraphale took a deep breath that transformed into a sob. And a few other sobs and some tears quickly joined in. For at least ten minutes, the angel remained kneeling on the floor as he wept. He couldn’t stop and the ache in his chest refused to ease.

But eventually he regained control enough to dig out a pocket handkerchief and wipe away the worst of the tears. Then he looked at Crowley’s unconscious form and knew that he couldn’t waste any more time.

“Please forgive me.”

He wasn’t completely certain if he was begging his demon forgiveness for what he was about to do or if he was praying to Her. He wasn’t sure if it truly mattered. What he had in mind felt unforgivable. Aziraphale knew that he would never forgive himself.


	7. Holy Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved hearing people theorize about what would happen next or what Aziraphale had in mind. But now the time for theories is over. I know you’ve been waiting anxiously and now the next chapter is ready. Let’s hope things go well for our demon and angel.

Awareness returned to Crowley slowly, slithering up his spine before curling into his skull. His first thought was that he would at least have a few moments of peace; Lucifer apparently couldn’t tell when he regained consciousness, at least based on previous experience, and would probably take a couple minutes to notice that Crowley was waking up. Maybe even longer if he didn’t open his eyes. He could use it as a chance to take stock of himself.

His corporeal body felt heavy and sluggish. Weighed down. And there was something metal and cold wrapped around his wrists. Both physically cold and cold from the magic flowing through the metal. Manacles. They felt like some type of demon-restraining spells engraved into a set of manacles.

Unsurprising that something like that would exist. Humans were an ingenious and creative bunch. Crowley knew that Aziraphale collected a few powerful artifacts and kept them upstairs, hidden away from prying eyes like some of his other older belongings. He must have dug them out and put them on Crowley before leaving. To slow him down. To buy Aziraphale time to escape and get a proper head start.

Good. The more time that his angel had to run, the safer that he would be. Knowing that he would never see Aziraphale again made his chest ache sharply, but he knew it was for the best. He could endure anything as long as Aziraphale stayed safe.

He hated that his angel was dragged into the mess. He never wanted that. And he especially didn’t want Aziraphale to know because Crowley knew it would ruin everything. Which had proven to be true. The one time that he tried to touch Aziraphale after he knew the truth, when he managed to stop time briefly and he reached for his upset angel, Aziraphale flinched away. Crowley was right; being infected and corrupted by Lucifer like that was a step too far to accept.

His entire train of thought went over a cliff in a fiery crash when Crowley heard the floorboards creak. The unexpected sound caused him to open his eyes.

The first thing he noticed oddly enough was that night had fallen. But that useless observation was promptly pushed aside. Kneeling next to Crowley, all his attention on whatever he was working on and arranging beside the demon, was Aziraphale. He wasn’t wearing a coat or tie, which felt a bit odd and distracting to notice. Aziraphale’s face was too somber, a frown etched on his features and his brows furrowed as he focused. But most importantly, the angel _wasn’t_ running like Crowley begged him.

“Angel? Why…?”

Aziraphale looked up abruptly, apparently surprised by his return to consciousness. But when he met Crowley’s eyes, he seemed to recognize which one was in control of the physical body for the moment. He leaned over the motionless demon with a sad smile.

“I know we don’t have much time before… So I need you to answer quickly,” said Aziraphale. “What are you willing to risk to be free of him?”

“Not _you_,” he whispered. Even talking was a struggle with the manacles weakening him. “Supposed to run…”

“I know, but I can’t in good conscience abandon you to this fate. And I promise that I’ll be safe either way, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “But as long as I’m not a factor, what would you risk?”

To break that connection to Satan? To feel like his corporeal body belonged to himself again? To no longer be the devil’s puppet? To be free of Lucifer permanently?

To know that no one could force him to hurt or destroy his angel?

If he knew that Aziraphale would remain safe either way, what would Crowley risk to be rid of that dark piece of Lucifer buried in his essence?

“Anything,” he whispered.

Aziraphale didn’t look happy about his answer. An understandable reaction. Crowley knew what he was suggesting. Or at least, he had some very strong suspicions. His frantic and desperate search for answers had only provided one solution and even his angel probably couldn’t find a better one in a few hours. There was one way to get rid of Lucifer’s presence and it wouldn’t end well for Crowley.

There was a faint scent. One that Crowley had been breathing in since he woke up. Not a strong or easily recognizable one. Ligur certainly didn’t recognize it in time. But Crowley’s sense of smell was a bit better than the average demon.

He knew what Aziraphale was planning. Or at least he had a pretty good idea. But he didn’t want to think about it. He would rather focus on the more familiar and comforting scents of the bookshop and his angel. That was better, wasn’t it?

Besides, he was tired. He was done with it all. By that point, Crowley couldn’t imagine enduring the devil’s presence and control any longer. He wanted… He wanted it to stop. He couldn’t take anymore of it. And if the only way for it to be over was…

It would hurt. Crowley knew that the pain would be the least of his problems, but it would certainly be agonizing. He accepted that. And he accepted what would almost certainly be the eventual outcome.

It didn’t seem as scary a prospect now. He couldn’t see himself getting through the process in one piece. But it turned out that his anger, hatred, and spite against Lucifer was stronger than his self-preservation instinct now. Anything to be free and ensure the devil lost.

Crowley would risk almost anything and accept the consequences. But even now, he didn’t want those consequences to hurt Aziraphale and he knew it would _shatter_ the angel. He would blame himself.

“Can’t ask… you to…,” whispered Crowley.

Closing his eyes momentarily, Aziraphale said gently, “You didn’t ask me to do this. It was my decision.”

Fury, hatred, and aggression hit Crowley hard and without warning, sharp enough to make him gasp. Foreign and unwanted emotions, washing over him in sickening waves. He was getting far too used to the intrusion.

“_Whatever you and your principality have in mind, I will make you suffer. No more games. No more leniency or kindness from me. Every mistake and every betrayal, I will punish you tenfold. You will experience impossible agony. You will tear apart that angel until he is broken and barely clinging to life. You will be dragged back into Hell. Your suffering will only end when death takes you. And I will only **allow** you to die when I finish using you how ever I wish and not until I am satisfied by the extent of your pain and my **pleasure**._”

The fast and vicious whisper in Crowley’s ear was horrible, but easier to bear than having Lucifer steal his voice again. He absolutely hated it; the devil speaking to Aziraphale and forcing Crowley to say the words. Lucifer forcing him to expose every detail, twisting them to suit his needs. He hated the loss of even that much control.

And as unnerving as the threats might be, Crowley was growing used to hearing them. The constant exposure dulled their impact. And Lucifer didn’t have the imagination to compensate.

Ignoring the whisper and the waves of foreign emotions, Crowley smiled sadly at Aziraphale and said, “Please… don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” he said, slowly opening his eyes. Aziraphale carefully repositioned himself until he was leaning over Crowley, using his knee to pin the demon’s chest down and hold him in place. “I promise, my dear. And I’m sorry.”

“I’m not…”

He felt his control being ripped away. But if he could have, Crowley would have smirked. The manacles bound and weakened his physical body, which meant that Lucifer was stuck puppeteering limp and heavy limbs that could barely move. Lucifer couldn’t make him do anything useful.

The flare of frustration from the devil felt oddly satisfying.

Unable to physically lash out, Lucifer seized control of his voice and hissed, “Foolish principality… He’s mine…. You can’t steal… what is mine…. He will never… belong to you… Too weak… Too soft…”

“Crowley doesn’t _belong_ to anyone,” said Aziraphale sharply, his expression gaining the fierce and unyielding steel that angel always wrapped in his kindness and gentle nature. “And you’re going to let him go _now_.”

“He’ll die first… principality…”

“Quite likely,” he said, his expression grave. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

Moving quickly, the angel’s hand twisted Crowley’s head sharply so that the tattoo was showing face up. And with the demon held in place, Aziraphale reached for something out of Crowley’s view.

Crowley wanted to close his eyes. Even if he had accepted what was about to happen and even embraced it to an extent, he didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to see it coming, even if he knew that closing his eyes would make no real difference. But Lucifer didn’t give him even that amount of control of his corporeal body. And that meant he caught a glimpse of Aziraphale picking up a piece of white cloth and bringing it towards Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale might have offered another apology, but he couldn’t be certain. As soon as the faintly damp spot on the towel touched the tattoo, white-hot burning pain consumed Crowley’s entire world and he couldn’t stop screaming.

* * *

Holy water didn’t dilute. There weren’t varying strengths of holy water. A liquid was either holy or it wasn’t. Aziraphale couldn’t mix up a weaker version of holy water that would do less damage to a demon. The best that he could do was to use only a small amount and hope for the best.

He didn’t need an entire bathtub of holy water. The contents of a single tartan-patterned thermos could melt an average-sized demon who was also a duke of Hell within a few seconds. At least, that’s what Aziraphale had gathered from Crowley’s description of what happened to the now-deceased Ligur. He needed a smaller amount that would be easier for him to confine to the taint that Lucifer left buried in Crowley’s essence and would hopefully not instantly destroy every shred of the demon.

Half a teaspoon of holy water on one of his soft towels. A tiny and controllable amount of liquid. He just wished that there was another way.

Even with Aziraphale trying to hold him down and the manacles weakening him, Crowley thrashed wildly as he pressed the towel against the mark. Not enough to break free of the angel’s firm grip or dislodge him. No, Aziraphale wouldn’t let him go.

Aziraphale tried to ignore Crowley’s pained struggles under him. Just as he tried to ignore the inhuman and deafening screams of agony. Just as he tried to ignore the stench of melting demonic flesh and the sound of sizzling. And the sight of—

_ You’re hurting him. You’re killing him. He’ll die and it’ll be your fault. _

No, he couldn’t think about it. He needed to concentrate on the deeper damage. Especially the way that the holy water was burning through Crowley’s demonic essence. He needed to monitor the progress closely. Aziraphale couldn’t keep it from damaging the demon completely, but he could direct some of it towards the tendrils of Lucifer’s power buried in his essence.

If he could direct it enough, Aziraphale hoped that the holy water would burn out the taint before destroying Crowley permanently. If Aziraphale could aim the damage enough, maybe his demon could survive.

Aziraphale Looked closely as the holy water scorched through Crowley, burning away at him and vile infection that ran through the demon. And to assert what little control that he could on the process, Aziraphale was forced to reach. More than a brief brush against the edges of Crowley’s essence, but not nearly as deep of a violation as what Lucifer did. But still deeper than anything casual.

_ How dare you? How dare you put him through this? How are you any better than the devil? He’s suffering. _

And so he Watched. Aziraphale focused solely on the progress of the holy water melting and scorching away at Lucifer’s power. He had to wait. Too soon and this would all be for naught. But as soon as it was done, Aziraphale had to be ready to react. He couldn’t be distracted.

But he still noticed when the screams fell to wordless whimpers and then to silence. He noticed when Crowley’s pained struggles grew still. He noticed when Crowley’s breathing turned haggard, wet, and weak. And he certainly noticed the damage it was doing to the demon’s true self, practically eating him from the inside-out.

_ He’s dying. It’s your fault. Stop or you’ll lose him. _

Aziraphale kept apologizing. The words tumbled from his mouth almost outside of his control. He couldn’t stop himself. Not when Crowley was in such agony and it was Aziraphale’s fault.

How bad was the pain? How bad was the damage? As bad as what Crowley suffered during the Fall? Worse? Aziraphale didn’t know.

Lucifer had buried deeply into every part of Crowley’s essence, but both of them were burning and melting from the holy water. Too fast and far too slow. Aziraphale couldn’t deny that what he was doing was anything less than torture. But the second that the last vile traces of the devil’s influence were gone, scorched and melted away into nothing, Aziraphale threw the stained towel away and pressed a second waiting one to try absorbing any remaining moisture.

But it wasn’t stopping. The holy water was gone, but the damage continued. A cascading collapse. Aziraphale poured a healing miracle into Crowley, trying to halt what he’d started.

_ He’s dying. He’s dying. Please, no, not Crowley. _

He barely touched the demon’s physical body with his power. Only repairing enough to keep him from discorporating. Couldn’t let him fall into Hell’s grasp. Not truly healed, but a human wouldn’t instantly die. For now, it would do. Aziraphale needed as much energy as possible for Crowley’s true form.

The injuries were nauseating. Everywhere that Aziraphale Looked, the burnt damage threaded through the demon’s essence. And it hadn’t _stopped_. It was slowing, but not yet stopped. The holy water had already carved deep channels as it melted away both Lucifer’s taint and Crowley. And the broken and hurt essence left behind was unstable. Too much was gone. And it felt like what was left was about to collapse in on itself. _Was_ collapsing.

And Aziraphale _refused_ to allow it.

Heal and stabilize. That was Aziraphale’s focus. He knew that he couldn’t fix everything. There was too much scorched away, the burnt edges were still sizzling, and the damage from the holy water was resisting the angel’s miracle. What Aziraphale attempted was to heal just enough to keep him stable. Like he was adding support structures. He reached, trying to hold the pieces in place. The angel reached as deeply as he dared and did everything possible to keep Crowley’s essence from collapsing and fading from existence.

_ He’ll die. It’s your fault. You did this. You can’t take it back. _

Aziraphale lost track of time. An eternity seemed to pass as he poured all his strength into coaxing the wounded essence of his demon into holding together. He barely noticed when the damage finally stopped completely.

Only when the wounded and burnt essence finally steadied enough that the angel wasn’t completely supporting Crowley did Aziraphale realize that he was trembling from exhaustion and his face was streaked with tears. He hadn’t even noticed when he started crying.

And now that he could spare a moment, Aziraphale couldn’t ignore the state of Crowley’s corporeal body any longer. The stench of burnt and melted flesh, mixed with the scent of brimstone, filled the air. The shaky and weak gasps came out half-choked and wet. The vicious burns stretched down his chest, demonically-provided clothes unable to resist the holy water either. Burns that were blackened with section of flesh flaking off in places. And the burns grew worse as Aziraphale’s attention drifted further up. By the time he looked towards Crowley’s face…

The angel forced his own body to behave. Gagging wouldn’t help anything. Even if the ruins of Crowley’s face turned his stomach. What little healing that he’d spared for the demon’s physical body kept the holy water from melting all the way to his brain, but the entire right side of his head wasn’t as lucky.

But it was _fine_. Crowley was alive. His corporeal form and even his true self had survived. Despite how close it felt, Crowley didn’t slip away.

Weak, fragile, and deeply wounded, but Crowley didn’t die. He hadn’t been destroyed. And all traces of Lucifer had been burned away. The rest of the damage could be healed once Aziraphale caught his breath and recovered his strength a bit.

_ Can you heal it? Can you fix it? Truly? Or will those wounds stay there forever, never healing and always hurting him? A reminder of what you did to him. _

He could fix this. Aziraphale had to believe it. He could heal Crowley in time. As long as his demon was alive and safe, everything would be fine.

_ Please, let this be something that can be healed. _

But Aziraphale couldn’t forget how badly he’d hurt Crowley. How much pain that the angel had inflicted with that holy water. He couldn’t forget what he’d done to the demon that he loved. Aziraphale couldn’t forget and couldn’t forgive himself. And he couldn’t imagine Crowley forgiving that amount of agony.

Pulling the dry towel away, the fabric sticking to the partially-melted and scorched flesh, Aziraphale moved onto the manacles and unlocked them. At least his hands and wrists were far enough away to remain intact. The metal rattled and _clanged_ as the angel set them aside. Then he gently gathered Crowley in his arms.

The dark and sticky stains left behind on his sleeves and now his waistcoat barely registered in the angel’s mind.

“We’ll find a more comfortable spot to let me rest a moment,” he murmured as he stood up, holding the demon close. Aziraphale’s legs wobbled a bit, but he managed to steady himself. “Just a moment. Then I’ll fix what I did to you.”

* * *

_ Pain _.

Everywhere was pain. Inside and out. All the way down to his very core. Too much agony. He couldn’t think. He could only try to endure the way that the pain kept flaring up every few seconds. Regular as a heartbeat.

Heartbeat. Breathing. His corporeal body. Crowley tried to focus on that. It hurt, but not as much as his essence.

Don’t think about his true form. Don’t think about it. _Hurts_.

No, that level of agony was too much. Didn’t want to pass out again so soon. Better to focus on something manageable. He could endure the pain of his physical body as long as he ignored the rest. Just don’t think about the state of his true form.

Don’t think about anything. Hurts too much.

But his physical body hurt plenty on its own. Burning, aching, and throbbing pain. Breathing was a struggle; his throat felt both swollen and half-melted, nearly choking him. His entire head pounded sharply. The entire right side felt raw and white-hot, like a lightning bolt to the temple.

Was his body in shock? Felt like it was messed up bad enough to warrant it. Maybe adrenaline was masking some of the pain? If so, not nearly enough.

Opening his eyes didn’t go smoothly. His right eye didn’t respond at all to his attempt, stuck closed by what happened. His left eye resisted, but slowly moved a tiny crack. The gooey feeling of it opening, like it had melted nearly together, wasn’t pleasant. Honestly, the way his entire face felt reminded Crowley far too much of “The Phantom of the Opera.” Both the book version that Aziraphale had once described and the version from the musical. He didn’t imagine he looked great currently. But at least he could now get a blurry peek of his surroundings.

The bookshop. He was still in the bookshop. Crowley couldn’t smell the bookshop though. Burnt flesh, coppery blood, and brimstone. It was all that he could smell and taste. It filled his mouth, thick and choking.

He was lying down, stretched out on something soft and with something light and warm draped over most of his body. Crowley could make out a blurry tartan pattern. His head rested a little higher, propped up slightly. A lap. Crowley slowly worked out it out. He was lying on his back on the antique fainting couch. The one that he’d spent so much time lounging on over the decades. The tartan pattern belonged to a blanket that he halfway remembered glimpsing a few times. And his head was resting across someone’s lap, turned slightly to keep the worst damage on his right side elevated.

There was only one person that he could be resting on. _Aziraphale_. Even in pain and trying to imagine it wasn’t that bad, which was somehow trickier than convincing his Bentley to keep together, Crowley relaxed slightly at the realization. His angel was close and unharmed.

Something gentle brushed against the edge of his awareness. Something metaphysical rather than physical. Like before, when they hid in the Sands of Time. A feather-light contact. Not invasive; merely Aziraphale trying to check on the state of things beyond what he could observe by Looking.

But the brief contact made Crowley shudder. He wasn’t expecting the sensation and it drew his attention back towards his true form rather than his corporeal body. And he desperately didn’t want that because it _hurt_. Too much. It hurt too much. He didn’t want to look. Crowley refused to look at how bad it was. Because the damage to his essence hurt too much to bear and he needed to stop thinking about it before he ended up passing out again. With effort and focusing strongly back on his physical shape, Crowley managed to block out some of the pain again.

Still, the momentary lapse was enough to leave him shivering and struggling to steady his breathing again. Or as steady as his half-destroyed throat would allow him.

“Crowley?” called Aziraphale softly. “Are you awake?”

Moving seemed like a bad idea. Assuming that it was even possible to move at the moment. After a brief internal debate, Crowley decided that a verbal response would probably be the least painful option.

“…a…”

_ Nope _. Bad idea. A half-melted throat and mouth did not make speaking fun. Even that quiet and futile attempt hurt more than he expected. It took an incredible amount of self-control not to collapse into a coughing fit, which would have been horrible.

Crowley began wondering if maybe discorporating would have been a better idea.

“Don’t try to talk,” said Aziraphale, slipping his hand into Crowley’s. “You’re still hurt. I didn’t manage to finish healing the damage yet.”

Crowley squeezed his hand even as he closed his eyes properly again. Not like he could see much at the moment anyway. Besides, unconsciousness seemed very tempting. It would be a pleasant escape from the pain. But he couldn’t relax. Not completely. Not until he knew one thing for certain.

Forcing his body to obey despite the pain, Crowley whispered, “Lu…i…er…”

“…Lucifer?” asked Aziraphale quietly. He sounded weary and strained, but he returned a gentle squeeze of his hand. “He’s gone. Not a trace of him left in you. I promise. I made quite certain of it. You’re safe. There’s nothing left of him in you, Crowley.”

Relief washed over Crowley like a soothing balm. Gone. His angel did it. Lucifer was gone. He was free. It was over. Maybe Aziraphale would never be able to look at him the same way again, but at least the devil’s claws had been pried out of his essence.

Yes, the relief was tempered by reality. Aziraphale wouldn’t forget. He wouldn’t be able to move past it. How could he? Crowley couldn’t imagine his angel accepting him now, not after seeing exactly how deeply and thoroughly Satan had dug in and corrupted him.

Part of him wanted to hold his angel. To ignore the pain and just take comfort in his presence and touch. Crowley wanted to wrap his arms around Aziraphale and breathe in his familiar scent. He wanted to press a few soft kisses to his angel’s hand, his wrist, his neck, his temple, his forehead, and anywhere else that he could reach. He wanted to curl around Aziraphale while he still could. But mostly he wanted to turn back time enough that everything would be back to normal.

Unfortunately, Crowley knew better. He could hope for the impossible all that he wanted. That didn’t mean it would come true.

“Try to relax and get some rest,” continued Aziraphale as he carefully pulled his hand out of the loose grip. Crowley immediately missed the gentle contact. “I’ll try to do a little more. Holy water… It’s not healing easily, but I’ll take care of this. I’ll fix it.”

The miracle sank into him, cool and comforting. Numbing some of the pain. Crowley shivered slightly, but embraced the soothing sensation. He let Aziraphale’s power glide across the wounds. Between the pain, exhaustion, and the reassuring feeling of his angel performing a miracle on him, Crowley managed to follow his advice and drift back to sleep.


	8. After the Holy Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have stuck by me through this entire fic and I deeply appreciate all of your support. And while I intended for this to be the final chapter, I decided to break it into two chapters. I doubt that any of you will mind that though.

When Lucifer started screaming in his personal chambers, a few foolish demons tried to investigate. After they were chased out by bellows of fury and furniture hurled at the door as soon as they took a single step inside, no one else dared to interrupt. They assumed the screams must be rage. A deadly anger that could be turned against any target.

And to be fair, it was at least partially fury. Fury at losing. Fury at the principality. Fury at Crowley being pried away.

But his screams were fueled more by anger. While the connection that Lucifer forged mostly went one way, the power that he left in Crowley’s essence thousands of years ago allowing him to torture the demon without experiencing that suffering in return, the holy water made a difference. It didn’t damage the devil, but it flooded Lucifer with absolute agony. And even trying to withdraw from the melting demon didn’t stop it. Only after the last shred of his power was burnt out of Crowley’s essence did Lucifer break free of the unimaginable pain.

And while the Fallen were not generally imaginative, the devil could imagine quite a bit of pain.

Panting heavily, he spared only a moment to savor the relief. The rage and hatred came rushing in. How dare that angel cause him pain? How dare the angel take away what belonged to Lucifer? Whether or not Crowley survived the experience didn’t matter. The foolish principality stole what the devil had claimed.

The devil _lost_ to the angel. And that was unacceptable. No one could know that he was defeated yet again, this time by a mere principality.

And that made Lucifer pause. He sat on his throne of carved stone, pondering in the darkness.

At the moment, no one in Hell knew of this humiliating loss. They didn’t know about any of this. The only ones who knew about what Lucifer did thousands of years ago and the connection that he’d forged were himself, Crowley, and the stubborn angel. No one knew about his efforts to punish Crowley and no one knew that it backfired.

But if Lucifer attempted to retaliate, there would be no hiding what happened. Whether he sent demons to Earth or attempted to go personally, the secret would come to light. They would know that he lost.

That could not happen. His leadership and reputation could not bear another blow so soon. Perhaps his loss could be excused when it was the Anti-Christ banishing him back to Earth, as humiliating as it might have been. But being defeated by a mere principality, screaming in pain as the angel snatched away his prize, was unacceptable. It might give other demons ideas concerning whether or not he could rule any longer. And Lucifer did not want to deal with a full-blown rebellion.

Lucifer only approved of rebellions when he was the one leading them.

If he sought out revenge, there would be no hiding what had happened. And once the rest of Hell learned of his defeat, there _would_ be consequences. Troublesome and annoying consequences. But if Lucifer did nothing, then no one would find out those consequences could be avoided.

Oh, Lucifer wouldn’t forgive or forget. If Crowley or Aziraphale ever set foot in Hell or came within reach again, Lucifer would ensure an _agonizingly_ slow demise. But he wouldn’t seek them out. They weren’t worth the effort or headache.

And perhaps a tiny part of Lucifer was impressed by the angel’s nerve and resolve to burn away the devil’s presence without hesitation. But only the tiniest part and he chose to ignore it.

Besides, there was no guarantee that Crowley even survived. If the holy water caused Lucifer that level of agony over their now-destroyed connection, there was a very good chance of Crowley succumbing. He knew how thoroughly his power had been threaded through the demon’s essence. Burning Lucifer out would burn a large chunk of Crowley away.

Such a shame. He would have enjoyed dragging Crowley back into Hell and making good use of the bright and pretty thing one last time before extinguishing his existence.

* * *

When Crowley first regained consciousness, however briefly, Aziraphale knew that he would survive. He was fragile and damaged, but he would survive. And while it didn’t ease all of the angel’s fears, it did help. But it was only the start of the slow path to recovery.

Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, the healing process took time. Angels and demons, even without the use of miracles, tended to recover more quickly than humans. But this instance was proving to be an exception to the rule. The damage from the holy water resisted miracles. Resisted, but not immune.

It didn’t take long to settle into a routine that seemed to be the most effective. Whenever the angel felt strong enough, he would pour as much energy as possible into healing Crowley a little further. Then he would try to distract himself by straightening the bookshop for a little while. He couldn’t focus well enough to attempt reading and sitting still let his mind wander too much towards thoughts that he couldn’t bear. He eventually brought the record player back from where he banished it simply to avoid the silence.

He did his best to speed things along. He hated seeing Crowley in pain. But it was just going to be a slow process and nothing would apparently change that.

Mostly Crowley slept. All of his energy was devoted to healing and it let him ignore the pain for a while. But whenever he managed to stir briefly, Aziraphale made certain to be close in case he was needed. The bookshop remained closed and the only time that the angel left the sleeping Crowley alone was when the exhausted demon quietly asked him to collect a houseplant from his flat.

That brief excursion was stressful in more ways than he wanted to admit. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to leave him alone, but it was one of the first times that Crowley had managed to ask for anything since the incident and the angel couldn’t deny him. But every second felt like an eternity and his mind couldn’t help conjuring various scenarios of someone coming across the vulnerable demon. He kept worrying that Lucifer or someone else from Hell would use the opportunity to strike and finish Crowley off.

But he made it to the flat and found the houseplant. The lone houseplant in a room that Aziraphale knew once held numerous specimens. Even if he didn’t spend as much time in Crowley’s flat as they did in the bookshop, he’d heard the demon describe his various gardening ventures. Aziraphale had heard about every acquisition, every floral setback and failure, and the removal of any plant that didn’t make the cut. But now they were all missing and only a single specimen remained in the flat. It made the place feel emptier and colder than usual. It made Aziraphale wonder what else Satan did to Crowley before the angel forced him out. What did the devil take? What other harm did he cause?

Aziraphale made certain to set the retrieved houseplant close to the fainting couch when he returned. Close enough for Crowley to easy see whenever he managed to wake up briefly.

Depending on both miracles and more human methods to protect vulnerable injuries, Aziraphale watched the slow healing progress carefully. The melted and destroyed flesh was gradually replaced by healthy skin. He went through quite a bit of gauze before he was satisfied leaving those wounds uncovered. The burns to his head were the slowest of the physical injuries to retreat, but they were healing.

The worst of the wounds, those scorched into his essence, were taking even longer to fade. They were spread throughout every part of him. But with every attempt to coax progress through miracles, the wounds shrank. Even slow healing was improvement.

It wasn’t perfect though. Aziraphale could see the progress, but he could also see where Crowley wasn’t healing as well as he wanted. Even as the demon started recovering his strength and could stay awake for longer spans of time, some of the deepest wounds to his essence weren’t closed yet. The angel worried that they never would and would instead remain as painful scars on his deepest level. Injuries that would never heal quite right.

It was proving true to his physical form to an extent. When the burns on his face finally disappeared two weeks later, the familiar tattoo was gone and replaced by a thick patch of scar tissue. An unavoidable sign of what Aziraphale had done to him.

That was why the angel couldn’t bring himself to say more than a handful of words to him or to even touch him outside of attempts to heal Crowley. And even that moment of contact, checking on healing damage to his physical and true forms, felt like he was crossing a line now. Guilt weighted heavily on Aziraphale whenever he looked or Looked at the visible injuries.

Because he _did_ it. He was the one who held the towel with a tiny amount of holy water and pressed it to his demon, leaving screams of pain echoing through his mind even now. He was the one who left deep wounds on Crowley. He was the one who hurt Crowley so badly and the evidence was etched on the demon’s face, inescapable and always screaming silent accusations.

Perhaps Crowley was too weak and hurt initially to leave the bookshop, but Aziraphale knew that he would slither away as soon as possible. He wouldn’t want to stay with someone who hurt him so badly. Who would? Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if Crowley planned to crawl off somewhere to sleep for another century or two. He was just waiting for the moment that Crowley would withdraw, physically or emotionally.

It would break his heart when that fast-approaching moment arrived, but he couldn’t begrudge Crowley if he left. How could he expect the demon to forgive him when Aziraphale couldn’t even forgive himself?

So the angel took care of Crowley. He tried to heal him and ensure that his demon remained comfortable. But Aziraphale tried to keep a careful distance, not wanting to crowd him with an unwanted presence. As much as Aziraphale might want to hold Crowley in his arms and whisper soft apologies, however he might want to tell him that he didn’t want to hurt him and that he loves Crowley, he doubted that such gestures would be welcome after nearly killing him. Aziraphale simply took what comfort that he could from his presence.

He took comfort from Crowley’s presence while he still could. He knew it would end far too soon.

* * *

Crowley managed to survive the Not-Quite-The-End-Of-Days, Satan’s personal attention, and exposure to holy water. And yet the current tension was definitely going to kill him.

After about a month, he was doing better. Most of the damage to his corporeal body had finally healed, leaving only a slightly-raised scar where the holy water on the towel directly touched him. Considering that it nearly melted his entire face off and should have burned all the way through his skull, a relatively-small scar seemed like a fair price. Especially when it erased the serpent tattoo; the final trace of what Lucifer did was gone. The deeper wounds, those gouged into his essence were doing better. Not completely _gone_, but only the worst of them remained and barely hurt if he was careful. And as much as Crowley loved sleeping, it was nice being able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time.

He was doing better, but Crowley felt like he was waiting for the guillotine to drop. He’d seen enough heads tumble from the device to recognize the particular tension of knowing your upcoming fate and knowing that you’re helpless to change it.

Aziraphale remained in the bookshop, but he was distant. Not literally because he had a tendency to remain in Crowley’s line of sight or to at least poke his head around the shelves regularly to glance at him. But he was still distant. Conversations remained short, stilted, and rare. The angel barely touched him outside of attempts to heal Crowley. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

Aziraphale couldn’t stand to be near him anymore; it was the only explanation.

Crowley carefully checked over his rattlesnake plant, trying not to stare at Aziraphale as the angel silently sorted his books. Trying not to stare and failing. He couldn’t stand the tension that stretched between the two of them. He couldn’t bear the waiting.

He was nearly healed; he certainly could handle heading back to his flat. Well, as long as he didn’t think about the evening he spent on the floor in agony as Lucifer tortured him or coming back to the scent of smoke and dead plants, he should be fine going back. Crowley knew that he would have to leave soon. Aziraphale would be too polite to broach the topic first, but he would want him to leave. And even if Crowley toyed with the idea of simply dodging the topic and hoping that the angel’s manners would keep him from asking him to go, Crowley knew he couldn’t do that. He would have to leave and that would end everything.

Whatever that they might have once had, it must be burnt to ash.

His hands moved gently as Crowley ran them through the leaves, but his body felt like a coiled spring. The pressure had been building since he woke up on the fainting couch. Or rather, it started building the moment that Crowley realized that Aziraphale _knew_. That his angel _knew_ how deep Lucifer was entrenched and how long he’d been a part of Crowley. By now it was unbearable. It took all his self-control not to tighten his hands into fists around the delicate new growth on his rattlesnake plant.

It was too much. It was too much for his angel to accept. The straw that broke the camel’s back. Maybe Aziraphale could love a demon who messed with mobile phone service and designed the M25, but not one who spent six thousand years with Lucifer’s power weaving deeper and deeper into his essence. It was too much for him and it shattered everything that they’d slowly built over time. It tore out the very foundation and burned away everything.

Broken. Tainted. Corrupted by his presence. Ruined.

Lucifer’s final bit of revenge. Crowley might have survived having the devil torn from him, but he lost everything else.

“Please just say it,” he whispered, breaking the silence after several hours.

He didn’t mean to say anything. Crowley certainly didn’t expect the angel to hear him, especially with his books to distract him. But Aziraphale’s head instantly snapped up.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing,” said Crowley, instantly backtracking. Regardless of the almost painful tension strangling them, he was suddenly reluctant to take that final step of destruction. “I didn’t say anything.”

Setting down the books in his hands, Aziraphale said, “No. What did you want to tell me?”

He didn’t want to tell the angel anything. Part of him was terrified that he was about to shatter something vital. But another part of him couldn’t bear the holding pattern any longer. It would hurt. More than he could possibly imagine. But at least the waiting would be over.

He survived their argument at the bandstand. He survived finding the bookshop in flames and unable to sense his angel. He would find a way to survive Aziraphale’s attempt to kindly explain that “recent events had changed things” and that he “needed some time to think” rather than admit that he couldn’t love… not like before… and…

Maybe he wouldn’t survive it…

But at least the waiting would be over.

“I know,” he said slowly, unable to keep his voice casual despite his best efforts, “that you want me to leave. Nice that you let me stay this long and everything, but I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Why would you say that?”

Shaking his head and chuckling harshly, he said, “Are you kidding? You won’t meet my eye. You barely come near me. Not since everything came out. I get it, Angel. You didn’t sign up for that mess.”

“Crowley, I… I was trying to give you some space.” He twisted his hands anxiously in front of him, causing Crowley to leave the fainting couch and take a few steps towards Aziraphale instinctively. “After everything that happened… I knew you wouldn’t want…”

“Wouldn’t want what?” asked Crowley, taking another step closer.

Aziraphale tried briefly to meet his eyes through the sunglasses before dropping his gaze. His arms wrapped around himself, unease and guilt filling his posture. Everything about his expression made Crowley want to fix whatever was upsetting him.

“I hurt you.” Aziraphale’s voice came out quiet and flat. “I almost killed you. I know that. I know that you can’t… that you must… you must hate me…”

He didn’t even realize he was moving until Crowley slammed Aziraphale against the bookshelf behind him. Not hard enough to hurt and the angel only looked mildly surprised, but he didn’t even plan to do it. But as soon as the words came tumbling out of Aziraphale’s mouth, he reacted.

“_Never_,” snarled Crowley. “Never say that again. Don’t you even think it.” Their faces were nearly touching, a distracted part of himself remembering another time that he’d pinned Aziraphale against a wall like that. “Don’t you know that by now? After six thousand years, you don’t know how I feel about you? How could I _ever_ hate you?”

His mouth moved silently a few times before he swallowed and said, “But I hurt you so badly. I almost killed you.”

Expression softening and his grip on his clothes loosening, Crowley said, “Angel, you _saved_ me. Even after everything, after what you saw and heard, you didn’t leave even when it was smarter. How could I hate you for freeing me from him?”

When did his angel’s hands end up on Crowley’s wrists? He wasn’t certain. But Crowley noticed now. He felt the warmth from the contact and he felt Aziraphale’s close presence, the demon still pressing him against the bookshelf. And his face was directly in front of him, the angel’s eyes tracing his features. Just like when he was pinned against the wall at the ex-Satanic convent.

The comforting scent washed over Crowley. Ancient books, binding glue, cocoa, rich and expensive food, wine, old velvet from his favorite waistcoat, dust, warm sunlight, and that bright and elusive thing that he could only describe as “holy.” This close, he couldn’t help smelling it. Crowley almost wanted to stop breathing the warm, soothing, and familiar scent; it felt intoxicating and overwhelming. He wanted to stop, but he also wanted to bury his face and focus only on the scent.

He missed this. More than he could describe. He missed being close to Aziraphale.

But…

“I’m not worth this,” he whispered.

He didn’t deserve his angel. Aziraphale deserved better than him. He deserved better than Lucifer’s former puppet. He deserved better than someone who spent thousands of years with that level of darkness and corruption woven through his essence.

He deserved someone who wasn’t broken.

The warm grip on his wrists vanished before Aziraphale reached up to cup Crowley’s face gently. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed slightly as he gave a thin frown. Then his eyes closed.

“Now I know why you don’t like it when _I_ say such things,” murmured Aziraphale.

Then the angel leaned his head forward slightly, closing the tiny distance between them and pressing his forehead against Crowley’s in a gesture that could only be described as tender. The demon practically melted. Crowley took a deep breath, letting the scent of his angel fill him.

Aziraphale smiled and continued, “I love you, my dearest. You are the kindest, most careful, most patient, and most understanding person that I’ve ever known. And nothing will change that.”

“Even after Seeing what Lucifer did—”

“Nothing will change how I feel about you. If your driving didn’t chase me off, then why would _his_ cruelty affect how I see _you_?” His fingers traced lightly along the side of Crowley’s face. “I’m sorry that it took so long to free you from him and I’m sorry that I hurt you. But if you truly forgive me—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Angel.”

When Aziraphale’s fingertips brushed against the edge of the scar tissue, Crowley felt him flinch and saw the flash of guilt. That wouldn’t do at all. Crowley’s hand covered the angel’s, keeping it in place over the healed injury. He kept Aziraphale’s hand over the new scar. He didn’t want Aziraphale to think that this was a bad thing. He didn’t want Aziraphale to think that he blamed him.

Crowley wasn’t upset about the scar or the pain that he felt. He was happy to be free and that mark gone.

“You saved me, Angel. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“And the way that I feel about you hasn’t changed.”

Aziraphale leaned forward the rest of the way. It was light, gentle, and chaste, but Crowley barely kept upright as the angel’s lips brushed against his and his legs tried to wave the white flag of surrender. The soft gesture made his head swim as the tension melted out of him.

He thought that he would never have this again.

“Anathema was right,” whispered Aziraphale. “We need to work on communicating better.”

Crowley managed a weak chuckle before leaning in to kiss the angel this time. Soft and slow kisses that he pressed to Aziraphale’s lips, his cheek, and eventually working up to his angel’s forehead. Somehow Aziraphale wasn’t driven away and Crowley didn’t plan to take that gift for granted. He couldn’t seem to get close enough to satisfy his need to be near Aziraphale. He needed more.

At some point, Crowley ended up burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck and his hands clinging to his waist, the angel sandwiched between the bookshelf and the demon pressed flat against him. Not even the tightest embrace felt like enough. Holding him as close as possible wasn’t enough. He wanted— _needed_ to show Aziraphale how much he loved him.

But he always stumbled awkwardly over the words. Humming in contentment as Aziraphale buried his fingers in his hair near the nape of his neck, however, was well within his abilities. And human forms of affection could express certain things easier than words. Yet another awesome thing about humanity.

His angel still loved him. Aziraphale still wanted him. Even after Lucifer spilled every detail and Crowley couldn’t pretend the past never happened, it didn’t make him leave.

But as wonderful and warm as it might feel to curl around his angel, breathing in the comforting scent of _Aziraphale_ and _home_, Crowley was still healing. After a little while, weariness made him wobble slightly until Aziraphale’s hands moved down to his shoulders to steady him.

And like his angel did recently whenever he tried to heal the lingering damage, Crowley felt him brush lightly against the edges of the demon’s essence. A simple act to reassure himself that Crowley was fine and to check how bad it still was. But with the current circumstances, the two of them practically wrapped around each other, the gesture had far more intimate connotations. And a moment later, Aziraphale realized what exactly he was doing and started pulling back as much as the bookshelf would allow without shoving the demon away.

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, sounding flustered. “I shouldn’t have—”

Crowley found his mouth again, another gentle and warm kiss silencing the angel’s apology. Then, not giving himself the chance to second-guess himself, Crowley pressed back against Aziraphale’s essence. Not enough to be invasive or cross the line, but enough that his angel couldn’t possibly misunderstand his intentions. What Crowley was asking and what he was offering.

He felt Aziraphale startle slightly before looking at Crowley, eyes wide and questioning. He reached up and, when Crowley gave him the smallest nod of approval, the angel carefully removed the sunglasses and set them aside. Crowley tried to not feel exposed.

Then again, what he was silently proposing would leave him far more open. An act of trust and love. Compared to that, not wearing his sunglasses and meeting his angel’s eyes directly should be fine.

Searching his expression carefully, Aziraphale asked softly, “Are you certain about this, my dearest? Even after what Lucifer did—”

“You’re nothing like him, Angel,” he said firmly. “And he’s done enough damage. He doesn’t get to ruin or steal anything else.” Crowley closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s again. “There’s no one else that I want to Know like that. Just you. As long as this isn’t too fast or too much. As long as this is what you want. As long as you want me…”

“_Always_.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you’re certain… But if you change your mind or anything happens, we can stop. I won’t mind. Promise that you’ll tell me if you need to stop.”

Smiling, Crowley whispered, “Promise. I promise, Aziraphale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably guess what at least part of the final chapter will involve...


	9. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. The last chapter of this fic. I hope that everyone has enjoyed this story and that I don’t disappoint with this ending.

Of the two of them, Crowley was the one with experience on the subject. Unfortunately, it wasn’t _good_ experience. Which was why he didn’t immediately take the lead. And despite what he’d said and despite being the one to really initiate proceedings, Crowley hesitated. He would deny it. He would never admit it, but Crowley was nervous about what was happening.

But he wasn’t backing down. Lucifer wouldn’t ruin everything. He’d done enough damage already, but he was gone now. He couldn’t taint anything else. Crowley wouldn’t allow it.

Melding essences together was supposed to be an intimate moment, something good to be shared rather than an aggressive act against another. It was something meant to be shared out of love and trust. And that’s what it was going to be. Because Crowley loved and trusted Aziraphale. More than he could ever describe.

This is what he wanted. He wanted his angel. And he wanted his angel to want this too. It was just convincing himself to actually go for it that was a bit overwhelming.

Crowley didn’t even notice that his arms had slid down until Aziraphale’s hands slipped into place, their fingers interlacing. The angel squeezed his hands encouragingly, keeping their foreheads together. Crowley took a deep breath and let it out slowly before pulling their joined hands up a little, letting them rest against the bookshelf on either side of the angel’s head.

Soft, gentle, and cautious, Aziraphale brushed along the edges of Crowley’s essence. Testing the waters, in a manner of speaking. Not much different from when he checked the demon over before, but perhaps a little more uncertain. As if waiting for Crowley to pull away or change his mind.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

“‘S okay, Angel,” he murmured. “Not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand again. Then he began pushing against Crowley’s essence in a slow rhythm, like waves lapping against a beach. Lightly moving against him and, since Crowley wasn’t resisting, into him. It felt right, his angel slipping slowly the smallest part of himself into Crowley’s essence. As if he belonged there. It felt nice. Like ripples on a pond.

Crowley was ready to let Aziraphale do whatever he wanted, to surrender to the tide. He trusted his angel. But then Crowley felt Aziraphale switch from pushing to pulling. He pulled Crowley back into his essence a little, which felt warm and amazing. Push and then pull. Ebb and flow. It took a few times before the demon truly realized that Aziraphale wanted an active participant. He wanted Crowley to have some control in this too.

Push and pull. Back and forth. Ebb and flow. Constant as the tide. And waves of pleasure continued to wash over him.

The first faint hints that he felt of Aziraphale’s emotions seeping through startled him enough that Crowley almost wanted to dart away. His most recent experiences with feeling someone else’s emotions were unpleasant. But it was nothing like Lucifer and his anger and vindictive cruelty. He just felt the tiny echoes of his angel’s pleasure, affection, and nerves. Beautiful things rippling out, warm and comforting to experience from him. Crowley did his best to bury that brief irrational fear before Aziraphale had a chance to sense it in return.

A slow and easy pace, gradually mingling together. No aggressive force, but a welcoming embrace and trust. Soothing and relaxing as everything felt impossibly good. Even as the waves grew a little stronger and the current pulled a little deeper, it seemed right.

Crowley wouldn’t normally describe his emotional state with the words “utter bliss,” but…

Holy and demonic shouldn’t mix. That faint thought made it past Crowley’s increasingly overwhelmed state. Angelic entities were supposed to be the opposites of demons; logically they should hurt when they encountered. They shouldn’t mix, the same way that oil and water didn’t. But just as oil and water could actually be combined in the right circumstances to form a vinaigrette, Crowley and Aziraphale could clearly meld their essences together and it felt _good_.

It felt right. He wanted to be as close to his angel as possible. He wanted Aziraphale to plunge into the deepest corner of his true self, but he also wanted to melt deep into his angel’s essence. He wanted to feel this impossible pleasure while feeling the echoes of Aziraphale’s equally intense emotions. He wanted to keep going, melding together until no one could tell which of them was which.

Warm, bright, and soft, everything about Aziraphale felt wonderful and overwhelming. Waves of intense pleasure hit him over and over, always moving a little further each time. Crowley pulled Aziraphale in, then the angel pulled him back.

_Aziraphale_. Powerful and dependable as the tides of the ocean. And just as deep.

Ebb and flow. Back and forth. Intoxicating and wonderful. Crowley barely paid attention to his physical body, though he distantly noticed that he squeezed the angel’s hands slightly to the same rhythm.

_Aziraphale_. His angel. His clever, bright, and soft angel who gave away his sword, who sheltered a demon from the rain with his wing, and who backtalked the devil on Crowley’s behalf.

He loved him. He loved Aziraphale more than it seemed possible. All that he could think about was how much he loved his angel, how much he wanted to be even closer, and how _good_ it felt to be with him.

Crowley almost forgot, trapped in the constant tide of pleasure and barely aware of anything else. He almost forgot about the weariness and weakness that had been plaguing him. And he almost forgot about his healing essence, the injuries not quite gone. But mostly, he almost forgot that the devil ever existed. And it was nice to forget.

* * *

Aziraphale couldn’t believe that they’d waited as long as they had. He’d always had a taste for the finer things, indulging in various pleasures. And he was an angel. A being of love. Why wouldn’t he enjoy an act of love and pleasure? Especially with the person on Earth that he loved the most.

It was wonderful. Feeling Crowley all around him at the same time that Aziraphale enveloped him. Moving together like the tides. And all he wanted was to keep going. He could practically feel a current, trying to pull them along faster, stronger, and deeper yet.

Oh, Aziraphale wanted to give into that impulse. To pour himself into Crowley more quickly and more fully, but to also pull his demon in with all the strength of a powerful undertow. He wanted to meld together until they were practically one. He wanted the waves of pleasure to crash over them harder, faster, and stronger than ever.

But he forced himself to match Crowley’s pace, taking his time. There was nothing wrong with going slow and steady. Perhaps another time they would indulge in a more aggressive speed. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine how _amazing_ that would feel. But if they never did, that would be fine. He could follow Crowley’s lead.

If Crowley could slow down and be patient for so long when Aziraphale needed the chance to catch up, the angel could take his time.

Push and pull. Ebb and flow. Back and forth. Each wave moving a little further and feeling even better than the one before.

All right, maybe Aziraphale was slipping into a stronger and faster pace. But it wasn’t exactly intentional. And he could already feel hints of Crowley’s emotions and he seemed equally enthusiastic. Aziraphale would have stopped at the first sign of distress. But until then, holding himself back completely felt as futile as fighting the tides.

Aziraphale was never good at controlling himself when it came to indulging in pleasurable experiences.

Then the rhythm stumbled and a gasp of pain made Aziraphale freeze, eyes shooting open. Crowley was grimacing and breathing shakily. And now that he was paying attention to his physical form a bit, Aziraphale felt the demon’s hands squeezing tight. Then the angel Looked a little deeper and realized that, while neither of them were _fully_ entrenched in each other yet, he’d just brushed against one of the remaining wounds in Crowley’s essence.

“I’m sorry,” stammered Aziraphale, trying to clumsily untangle his own essence from the demon’s as quickly as possible.

How could he be so selfish? He _knew_ that Crowley was still hurt. He was hurt and tired, but Aziraphale didn’t think. He didn’t think about what was best for Crowley. Aziraphale tried to twist his way free, sliding away from Crowley. He shouldn’t have done this. He was putting his own desires first. He was as bad as Lucifer. How could he? How could he—

“Wait.”

Fingers tightened, catching Aziraphale’s hands before he could pull away. The angel remained still. He didn’t move, their essences partially melded together still. Crowley’s eyes opened slightly, golden and unfocused. As if he was trying to remind himself that he had a physical body available. Panting faintly and shivering, the demon wasn’t exactly looking at Aziraphale. But he wasn’t letting go either. Crowley was trying to hold onto him.

“Angel.” Still breathing shakily, Crowley relaxed his grip and leaned towards him a little closer. “‘M fine. Promissse. Just… careful.”

Aziraphale swallowed his immediate reaction to argue and pull away completely. He didn’t want to risk harming Crowley again. He didn’t want to hurt him. It would be smarter to put things off until Crowley recovered properly.

But Crowley was asking to continue. And he could still feel flickers of desire coming from his demon. Desire and hope. He couldn’t ignore Crowley’s words. It would be too similar to rejection.

Careful. All that Crowley asked was to proceed carefully. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly certain how, but this was his first time Knowing someone so intimately. There was plenty that he wasn’t exactly certain about. He was figuring it out as they went along.

Carefully. He could manage carefully. Aziraphale knew his healing wounds fairly well. He knew where they were and how they felt. He just needed to be careful about brushing against them.

Part of Aziraphale’s essence coiled experimentally around the injury. Protectively. Then, both of them cautious, the rhythm slowly resumed. Back and forth, pushing and pulling the pair together. But the healing wounds remained sheltered from the crashing waves, gentle lulls where the current glided around instead. And whenever the tides brought him close to a new injury, Aziraphale did the same thing to protect them.

The success sparked a small bubble of pride among the other sensations. It had worked. Crowley didn’t flinch again. Aziraphale’s idea protected him and they could both return to the churning waves of pleasure without concern. The angel smiled faintly, enjoying the sensation without further guilt.

And almost immediately after, a brief twinge of pain made the angel hiss softly. His old war injury. Didn’t expect that. Never did heal completely right, though it felt fine while in a corporeal body. Apparently melding essences together could also agitate it. But after some momentary fumbling, Crowley’s essence mimicked Azirphale’s earlier technique. He curled protectively to shelter the old injury and they kept going.

Everything grew more intense the further they went. Waves of pleasure, as powerful as an ocean in the middle of a storm. Plunging deeper into the depths of each other. And with each passing moment, Aziraphale experienced more and more of Crowley’s feelings. His relief, nervousness, excitement, joy, affection, and pleasure. His demon was happy. Crowley was happy and that fact made Aziraphale feel wonderful.

His mind nearly drowning in the constant pleasure washing over him, it took a moment before he noticed Crowley stiffen. A feeling of shock rippled over. Aziraphale blearily opened his eyes. Crowley’s eyes were still closed, but his expression was one of pure awe.

At first, Aziraphale didn’t know what could cause that reaction. Then he realized. If he could feel Crowley’s emotions, then he could feel the angel’s in return. And while Aziraphale could sense love naturally, demons didn’t have that ability.

This was the first time that Crowley could sense, could _truly_ know, exactly how much Aziraphale loved him.

“Yes, my dearest,” murmured Aziraphale. “I want you to Know how much I care for you. You deserve to be loved. I want you to Know that. I want you to Know all of me.”

The wave of affection hit. Strong. A new, faster, and more powerful rhythm started up, Crowley leading the pace. The sensations and shared emotions were intoxicating and wonderful.

“Angel.” Crowley barely gasped out the word, too caught up in the force of the tides. “Yours. ‘M _yours_.”

Managing to control his physical body enough to press a brief kiss to the demon’s lips, Aziraphale said, “Yours. Always.”

Unlike similar human acts, they weren’t chasing a climactic moment of intense and explosive pleasure. There was no ultimate moment. The sensation was more constant, but still powerful. Unending waves that moved through them. Once they reached a state of perfect balance, angel and demon swirling together without any divide or borders, the pair settled into a comfortable bliss. Their essences rocked back and forth in constant movements. There was no differentiating between their essences and their emotions. They might as well be one.

Aziraphale could happily exist in this state forever. A perfect representation of their shared love and trust.

But reality eventually reasserted itself. After what felt like an eternity of bliss, Aziraphale felt a thread of weariness trickling in.

“Crowley?”

“_Mmm?_”

Squeezing his hand briefly, Aziraphale said, “I think we should finish for now.”

“_Ngh_. Don’t wanna. ‘S nice.”

“It does feel good. But you need rest. And perhaps we could try this again when you feel better.”

“_Mm-hm_. I… I’d like that.” His voice heavy with drowsiness, Crowley mumbled, “Being with you… Warm. Bright. Felt right.”

Aziraphale smiled as he carefully started separating again. It wasn’t easy to unravel from each other when they were so thoroughly melded together. Their essences didn’t want to divide. But after a few moments of trying to figure out where the edges used to be, the process eventually went faster.

He felt strange as everything settled back into place. He wasn’t certain that he fit in his physical body properly anymore. He immediately missed having Crowley impossibly close. He missed feeling him everywhere, his demon’s emotions as clear as his own. Aziraphale felt like a puzzle missing pieces. Incomplete.

What he told his demon was true. Aziraphale was _his_ and nothing would change that. They belonged together.

Drawing his attention back towards his corporeal body, Aziraphale noticed that the bookshelf was digging into his back rather uncomfortably. But other than that, neither of them looked particularly disheveled. Aziraphale didn’t even ruffle his clothes. One of the advantages of melding essences was that it involved very little happening on a physical level and didn’t get as messy as some human forms of affection.

Crowley’s hands slipped free, letting Aziraphale’s arms drop. Then he wobbled slightly before reaching out to steady himself with the angel’s shoulder. A bleary smirk and half-lidded eyes warmed Aziraphale. None of the tension lingered. Crowley looked completely relaxed and happy, ready to collapse in a limp and practically liquid puddle on the ground.

“Come along, my dear.”

Aziraphale gently tugged him back towards the fainting couch. Crowley was practically falling asleep on his feet and even the angel felt comfortably drowsy. It didn’t take much effort to urge his demon to sit down. And he didn’t have to think before sitting beside Crowley.

_Crowley_. His dearest, precious Crowley.

“Get some rest. I know you’re tired,” urged Aziraphale. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

His arm reached over and guided Crowley down until his head rested across Aziraphale’s lap. The angel ran his fingers slowly through his red hair, earning a quiet hum of pleasure. Aziraphale continued the gentle gesture, repeating it until Crowley’s breathing slowed and deepened. And he continued dragging his fingers through his hair, the sensation soothing Crowley towards sleep.

This was how they were meant to be. The two of them together. Angel and demon on Earth and among humanity, from now until the delayed-indefinitely Apocalypse. Nothing would change that. Nothing would separate them.

Aziraphale wouldn’t allow it.

* * *

No one noticed the letter arrive. It somehow ended up in a stack of reports and missives that were delivered to Lucifer’s personal chamber. Delicate calligraphy on the envelope and letter, written in black ink instead of Hell’s standard blood red, and on thick and expensive paper, it stood out among the rest of the pile. And that’s why Lucifer pulled it out to read in private.

_To Lucifer, Ruler of Hell, the Morning Star, Satan, the First of the Fallen, the Devil:_

_I am hopeful that you accept this letter with the understanding that I would not be writing to you in this manner unless the matter was of the utmost importance. Addressing the ruler of Hell is not an act that I undertake lightly. Because of that, I would like to believe that you will understand that what I write should not be taken as a gesture of disrespect or as a mere fleeting fancy. It is a statement of absolute truth and should be treated as such._

_You have harmed the demon known as Crowley in the past. That is over. Such acts will not be tolerated any longer._

_Crowley has not been under the command of you or Hell since the events of the failed Apocalypse. You have no connection to him and he has no obligations to you or those you rule. You have no right to reach out to him again and you have no right to touch him, figuratively or literally._

_And if you should attempt to harm Crowley or order your demons to harm him on your behalf, I promise that I shall reclaim my sword, march straight into Hell, and eviscerate you with my weapon. The fact that you are the devil will make no difference. If you come near Crowley, I will take my sword and smite you. And no power in Hell will stop me._

_Respectfully,_

_Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth_

There was rage at the impudence, though not enough for Lucifer to change his mind about sweeping the entire mess under the rug. There was mild surprise that Crowley survived. And perhaps a sliver of respect managed to manifest. It wasn’t often that a mere principality sent a strongly-worded letter to the devil. It wasn’t particularly _bright_, but certainly bold.

And if by some slim chance that Lucifer felt momentarily intimidated by the angel’s promise, there was no proof that such an unbelievable thing may or may not have happened.

* * *

Things weren’t instantly perfect. Neither of them could erase the past or the damage it left behind. Life rarely behaved like it did in fairy tales, even for immortal beings.

While the dark tattoo and the foreign taint buried in the demon’s essence were both gone, the experience left different marks behind. No amount of miracles could completely erase the scar left on his corporeal body, a sign of Crowley living up to the earlier bluff of surviving holy water. And even after he finally healed, certain parts of his essence remained sensitive. Rather like Aziraphale’s old war injury.

But there were less obvious marks. Nightmares. A reluctance to let the other out of their sight, which lingered for far too long and nearly smothered them. Moments of guilt and self-doubt that plagued them both. A newfound protectiveness of Crowley’s plant.

They didn’t escape unscathed. But they survived. They survived, they were healing, and they were safe. And most importantly, they were together.

If you want to picture happiness, imagine an old bookshop in Soho with a nearly impossible schedule to navigate and a beautiful Bentley parked out front. Imagine a blond angel moving through his tomes, perhaps humming along to a record player or occasionally sitting down to read one of the books with some hot cocoa. Imagine a demon nurturing a rattlesnake plant, accepting the imperfections in a way that he couldn’t for so long, but his eyes never leaving the angel and a small smile tugging at his face. Imagine the red-haired demon watching him for hours out of love before tempting the angel to dinner. And imagine the two of them sitting together afterwards, sipping wine and discussing the possibility of finding a cottage together in South Downs in about a decade or two.

If you want to picture happiness, imagine an angel and demon holding hands with the knowledge that nothing would ever separate them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your support and sticking with me through this entire story. I deeply appreciate it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Darling (this thing that breaks my heart)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191912) by [knottist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knottist/pseuds/knottist)


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